


We Don't Talk About It

by Mimi011



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Adult Content, Adultery, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Implied Mpreg, Intersex Héctor, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Male-Identifying Héctor, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscarriage, Murder, Poisoning, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimi011/pseuds/Mimi011
Summary: Ernesto grabbed Héctor's shoulders and forced him to meet his eyes. "Your wife doesn't define who you are. You can be someone beyond your marriage, beyond Santa Cecilia. Hector, you can be who you are now, standing in front of me. You said that what we were doing felt good." Héctor learns that it is impossible to escape the consequences, even in death. Ernesto X Héctor in the beginning. Explores Héctor's afterlife before Miguel's visit, but with a couple fun divergences.1/11/19 edit: Fuck you in particular. You know who you are.





	1. Mistakes Were Made

Héctor Rivera was born into a large family. His father had seven siblings, and his mother had three. Before his Papá and his Mamá began arguing so often, they all lived with his Papá’s family. With so many cousins, Hector had lots of friends. His childhood had been almost idyllic, but his paradise would end too soon. 

One night, his Mamá woke him up and hurried them away from the Rivera family home. Hector noticed she had a bruised cheek and a black eye as she rode them to Santa Cecilia, where his tía Carmen lived alone. They moved in with her permanently, and his Mamá refused to answer Héctor when asked why they didn’t live with the Rivera’s anymore. 

Despite how easily he got along with his cousins, Héctor had trouble making friends in Santa Cecilia. The other children were suspicious of him, the lanky boy with the crooked nose. They were especially suspicious of his relation to his strange tía, who was rumored to be a witch. Héctor may have thought this too if he hadn’t known that his tía’s facial hair was a medical condition. 

After a while, there was one village kid who was brave enough to befriend the witch’s nephew. Ernesto de la Cruz. He was a well-built, handsome teenager, four years Héctor’s elder. All Héctor knew about him when Ernesto started talking to him was that his father was a drunk, according to his tía. Ernesto’s Mamá had died from an illness years ago. 

They became friends quickly, bonding over silly songs and their respective unfortunate situations. In the whole village they only had each other, and the music they made together. Years go on, and Héctor is sixteen when he firsts notices Imelda. All the other boys in the village were afraid of her, but her resolve reminded Héctor of his Mamá. With some help from Ernesto, Hector managed to secure a date with her, and then another, and then another. At eighteen, Héctor asked Imelda’s father for his blessing, and the two were soon engaged, and even sooner married. 

Imelda loved Héctor’s music and his spirit, and Héctor loved Imelda’s voice and her soul. Together with Ernesto, they performed for their friends and families in Santa Cecilia, getting work where they could find it. Soon, Imelda was pregnant with their first child, and Héctor was ecstatic. There was nothing he wanted more than a proper family since he was a little boy. When Coco was born, he finally achieved his dream. 

Ernesto, however, was becoming anxious. He couldn’t bear to stay in Santa Cecilia anymore. He hated living with his father and mooching off of Héctor’s family, despite how many times they said it was no issue. More than anything, Ernesto wanted to live his own life, not living on the tailcoats of his friend’s happiness and success. But he couldn’t do it alone.

Try as he could, Ernesto never wrote songs like Héctor’s, despite how well he performed. And, though he would never admit it to himself, he didn’t want to leave his best friend. In the end, the pull of ambition was stronger than his love for his friend. Over the course of years, he convinced Héctor to perform with him, not just play for his family. They could send money back to Imelda and Coco while they toured, and, if they became popular enough, the money would be good. 

Héctor wanted to stay in Santa Cecilia, but his family needed the money. The old rumors about the Rivera’s hung around in Santa Cecilia like a curse, and despite how hard Héctor worked to overturn them, he still caught a glare now and then. He was the bearded lady’s nephew, and Imelda was his wife, Coco his daughter, and Ernesto his best friend. Touring was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to deny. 

Héctor and Ernesto left for the road when Coco was only four, playing from town to town and making what money they could. The experience brought them closer together than ever before, and Héctor soon felt a shift in their relationship. Before the tour, they had been as close as brothers. Now that he and Ernesto spent every waking moment in each other’s company, Héctor began to see things in a different light. His best friend had passion and drive unlike anyone he’d met before. His optimism and cheeriness were infectious, as well as his undeniable charm. 

Another part of Héctor refused to let one of Ernesto’s better qualities, his good looks, out of his mind. For some reason, the taller man noticed more of his friend than before. The way Ernesto’s chest swelled as he sang, his strong bone structure, even the way his mariachi suit fit him so snuggly. Héctor had never before been so affected by his friend’s handsomeness. Maybe it was his friend’s newfound happiness that made him glow wherever they went. He thrived with the adoration of their listeners. 

Then again, it could just be the alcohol. Héctor had rarely been more drunk than he was after a good show. He and Ernesto played and drank from bar to bar, collecting tabs and new friends and more fans. They staggered to their hotel, each supporting the other from falling over. When they arrived to their room, they both collapsed on Ernesto’s bed, laughing at a joke that had been told half an hour ago. 

Héctor hadn’t notice that he was lying on his best friend’s chest until he met his eyes. They were wet from tears of laughter, and hazy from smoking whatever had been rolled for them a couple bars back. Ernesto noticed the same about Héctor. Despite his height, his friend felt so light on top of him. His hot breath against his face smelled like shots, and his face was red from laughing, and possibly something else. 

The room was suddenly too quiet for Héctor.

“Hey,” he whispered dumbly, still staring into Ernesto’s eyes.

His friend took a minute to respond, enraptured by the connotations of the moment.

“Héctor . . . .” Ernesto breathed his name, sending a spark of something Héctor couldn’t recognize down his spine. A thought lingered on his tongue, an idea on the edge of his best friend’s mind that the Rivera needed to know.

“Ernesto?” he encouraged slowly, unaware that his friend shared his confused feelings.

A few tantalizing seconds of stillness went by as the eye of the storm passed. In a flurry of heated emotions and confused desires, Ernesto pulled Héctor pink face to his and kissed him.

In his shock, Héctor allowed the exchange to continue, feeling his friend’s full lips stick to his. Ernesto eyes shut and he moaned lowly as if tasting the flavor of life for the first time. This is what the he wanted, he knew that now. His Papá had tried so hard to beat it out of him, tried to forget about his unholy son by ignoring him in favor of the bottle. The satisfaction of knowing his father failed as he parted Héctor’s lips with his tongue was powerful, urging him to go further. 

The feeling was short-lived. Héctor broke away from the kiss, taking a gasping breath as he pushed Ernesto away from him. The larger man’s confused expression faded when he noticed the frightened look on his friend’s face. 

“Héctor, I-” he tried, his mind searching for an explanation, hoping it wasn’t too late to forget this ever happened.

His best friend ignored his unspoken plea. “What did you do to me?” he demanded, hand grasping the clothing over his fluttering heart.

Ernesto couldn’t respond, reeling in the aftermath of his mistake. He’d ruined everything. His best chance to live his dream was falling through his fingertips. He felt despair like he hadn’t felt in years, not since his Mamá died. 

“What did you do to me?” Héctor repeated, frustration seeping angrily into his voice as he struggled to express what he was trying to say. “Why did you do that? Why did you- you make me- made me . . . .”

He trailed off, his tired, inebriated brain struggling to find the words. Ernesto held his breath as his world seemingly collapsed around him.

“Why do I, did I . . . did I like that?” Héctor managed finally, surprising both himself and his best friend. 

“What?” Ernesto said, confused. A thin light of hope sparked in his heart. 

Héctor ran a distressed hand through his hair, and continued panickedly, “You, you’re a man - I’m not, we shouldn’t. Why did that make me feel so-” he stopped himself, suddenly scared of the answer.

Ernesto leaned forward, his soul begging to know, “Feel so . . . ?”

The Héctor swallowed, refusing to meet his best friend’s gaze and instead staring at the bedsheets. 

After a few, heart-stopping seconds, he murmured, “ . . . . good.”

The confession made Ernesto’s heart soar, and there was no suppressing the small smile than inched its way onto his lips. On the other side of the bed, his friend had a very different feeling overtake him. His face contorted with dread and shame.

“Imelda,” he lamented. “Dios mió, I’m a married man. What have I done?”

“She doesn’t have to know,” Ernesto suggested immediately, reaching to place a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Héctor saw the gesture approaching and jumped off the bed away from Ernesto.

“What are you saying?” he asked. His head was telling him to be angry, to run out of the room and back to Santa Cecilia. If only he wasn’t so drunk.

“She doesn’t have to know,” the other man repeated coolly, disguising his desperation under a facade of charm as he stood to look his best friend in the eye. “Héctor, you are only twenty-two years old. You have your whole life to be with the same woman over and over. Don’t you want to experience life to its fullest?”

Ernesto gestured to Héctor’s discarded guitar. “The freedom this tour allows us won’t last forever,” he reminded. “Why can’t we enjoy ourselves?”

“I’m married,” Héctor rebutted, glancing off at the door. His sense told him it would be best if he left now.

Ernesto grabbed Héctor’s shoulders and forced him to meet his eyes. “Your wife doesn’t define who you are. You can be someone beyond your marriage, beyond Santa Cecilia. Héctor, you can be who you are now, standing in front of me. You said that what we were doing felt good.”

The sensible part of Héctor wanted to break away from Ernesto and get on the next train home. Usually, his sense led him in every decision. Now, though, with the alcohol in his veins and Ernesto  
begging in front of him, something that Héctor had never felt before overpowered him. 

Placing his hands on top of Ernesto’s, Héctor gently held onto his friend. He took a deep, yet shaky breath, and let it out slowly. His best friend waited eagerly for his answer.

Héctor thought over the proposition as much as his intoxicated brain allowed him. Imelda was the love of his life. He knew that for a fact. What he felt for Ernesto was different. It was passionate and desperate, thick and suffocating, deep and primal. 

Meeting Ernesto’s eyes in earnest, Héctor made his decision. 

With some hesitation, the taller man leaned down to meet his friend’s lips. The kiss was soft and tame, but willing to continue despite the consequences. Ernesto nearly weeped in relief and joy as he returned the kiss, mindful to match Héctor’s pace. 

Their movements were timid and gentle. Ernesto took the lead, wrapping an arm around Héctor’s lower back and he pulling him closer. Allowing the closeness, Héctor held onto his friend as he sucked on the other man’s lower lip. He felt himself being pulled to the bed and laid below Ernesto. The bulkier man encouraged him to kiss harder, deeper, and Héctor did. 

Soon the songwriter was running his hands through his friend’s well-kept hair, and Ernesto was sucking on his neck. A soft gasp escaped Héctor’s lips as Ernesto traced his teeth over his skin, his hands searching for the clasps on his jacket. Héctor’s mind raced as he was disrobed, only having enough coherent thought to do the same for Ernesto. They flung their jackets onto the floor carelessly. Ernesto’s kisses trailed down his neck onto his chest, his hands working fast to unbutton his shirt. 

Héctor moaned as Ernesto’s fingers splayed across his body, touching his chest, his back, his face. The stimulation was far more intense than anything he’d experienced before. He felt as if a fire were ignited in the pit of his stomach as Ernesto’s kisses trailed lower and lower down his torso. When his best friend kissed just below his belly button, Ernesto hurriedly unclasped his belt and tugged his pants and underwear to his ankles. 

The warm breath against his crotch sent Héctor wild. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a pleasured gasp.

“Don’t,” Ernesto reprimanded softly, looking up to meet Héctor’s unsure eyes. “I want to hear you.”

Héctor slowly removed his hand, watching Ernesto’s every movement. His friend’s face was inches away from his erect member, a sight he’d never thought he’d see. 

Ernesto smiled. His voice deep and rolling, he murmured, “Good.”

He then ducked his head lower and gradually took Héctor into his mouth, sucking and rolling his tongue along his length. The Rivera shivered with pleasure and bucked softly into his best friend’s mouth, seeking more than what he was being given. Ernesto took notice and moved faster. His hands grasped Héctor’s hips hard enough to bruise. Héctor wrapped his legs around Ernesto’s back, giving him better leverage. 

The pace slowly grew more intense as Héctor became desperate, mewling and gasping as he bordered on sweet release. Ernesto nearly choked when the other man bucked too roughly, and a burst of hot cum flooded into his mouth. Thinking quickly, he swallowed as much as he could, not wanting to leave a suspicious mess for the hotel’s maid. Héctor relaxed completely on the bed, his legs falling off of Ernesto’s back as he reveled in the afterwaves of his orgasm. His eyes were glassy and glazed with bliss. 

Ernesto crawled to lay beside him and played with Héctor’s hair as he came down from the high. The contented expression on his face was beautiful, and Ernesto took pleasure in knowing that it was he who made him feel that way. After a few minutes of comfortable silence between the two, Héctor’s contentedness began to fade and was replaced by concern.

Meeting Ernesto’s gaze, the songwriter said, “Listen to me, Ernesto.”

“Of course,” the other man replied smoothly, running his thumb soothingly over Héctor’s forehead.

“What we just did, we won’t ever speak of again,” he pressed seriously. 

“I’ll never tell a soul,” Ernesto agreed, settling in beside Héctor. “What happens on the road stays on the road.”

“Yes,” said Héctor drozily.

The two fell asleep before they could worry about the consequences of their actions.

_________

 

The next morning Héctor’s guilt had him stumbling out of bed and sprinting to the bathroom. Ernesto woke to the sound of retching. He fetched his friend of a glass of water before joining him in the bathroom, watching Héctor hurl into the toilet. 

“Perhaps we did drink a little much last night,” Ernesto offered as an explanation, setting the water on the floor within Héctor’s reach. “I have such a headache.”

Héctor, finished vomiting for now, took a swig of water to rinse out the acidic taste from his mouth and spit into the toilet bowl.

“I can’t believe I did that with you,” he muttered afterwards, flushing the toilet and rising to his feet. His expression was sour from sickness and shame.

“I can’t either,” Ernesto admitted honestly, though with a different meaning. 

“Have you . . .” Héctor searched for the right words. “ . . . always felt that way towards me?”

Ernesto thought the question over, glancing off to the side.

“Not when we were kids, no,” he said finally, turning towards the bedroom to dress and avoid the conversation. Despite the nature of what they did last night, Ernesto felt exposed having revealed such an important secret to his friend. He hated feeling vulnerable.

“But now? What do you feel for me now?” Héctor pressed, following him into the main area. The discarded jackets and crumpled sheets stood as monument to what they did. He almost couldn’t bear to be in the same room as them.

Ernesto let out a tired sigh, grabbing his mariachi jacket and slipping it on.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his frustrated tone warning his friend not to ask any further. 

“You don’t know?” the songwriter exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “I cheated on wife with you last night, and when I ask you why, you say you don’t know?”

Ernesto turned violently to Héctor and yelled, “I don’t know! If you knew you were going to be this upset about it, why did you even do it?”

“I don’t know! Why did you do it?”

“Goddammit, because I wanted to!” Ernesto roared, facing Héctor with hot-headed fury. “I don’t know what I feel towards you! I just know that I wanted you- I wanted to have you. Is that what you want from me?”

“No - I don’t know!” Héctor seethed, glaring down at his friend. “I just - I don’t-” he sighed in defeat and exhaustion, letting his posture sag, “I don’t want us to fight.”

Ernesto breathed heavily, his anger dissolving slower than Héctor’s. In honesty, he didn’t want to argue either. There were other rooms besides their own whose occupants were probably upset over the noise. The last thing they needed was to have strangers bothering them with unwelcomed questions.

“What do we do now?” asked the taller man, his forlorn expression breaking the last thread of Ernesto’s anger. De la Cruz sighed in defeat.

“I think we should continue the tour,” said Ernesto. They needed the money anyways, and despite what had happened (and perhaps also because of what happened) between them, he still wanted to chase his dream. The thought of being a famous musician made his head spin with possibilities, and this tour was still his best chance to achieve his goal.

After a moment of thought, Héctor nodded in agreement.

“I don’t think I can go home so soon after . . . what we did,” he said.

Ernesto nodded. He bent and picked his friend’s jacket off of the floor.

“Then it’s decided,” he acknowledged, handing Héctor’s jacket to him like a peace offering. 

“Yeah,” Héctor conceded, taking his jacket and pulling it on. 

It was going to be a long tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so if one of the people I told about this fic irl actually went and read it (you know who you are): to quote this chapter, “what happens [online] stays online.”


	2. Lives Were Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Take a quick gander up to those warnings, this chapter's gonna use them.  
> Thank you to Sugar_cane, Peepis and Sticks (Popfrost), moongremlin, kyuumihaira, and bluehazes and all the guests that left Kudos! And for moongremlin: don't worry, I actually already have the next four chapters written up and ready to go. I'm aiming to space them out for a new chapter every five days.  
> 1/11/19 edit: Fuck you and enjoy motherfuckers. You've put this on yourself. Love, Mimi011.

Weeks passed, and the tension between the two men generally lifted. Héctor caught himself admiring Ernesto once or twice more, but was quick to look away. Ernesto, likewise, couldn’t stop thinking about their night together. He knew he wanted more, but aimed to respect Héctor’s boundaries. 

Eventually, what they both anticipated came to be. They were in another hotel room in a different town. The picking of their guitars still rang in Hector’s ears. Their last venue was appreciative enough of their performance to give them free drinks. Too many drinks. 

Ernesto began by massaging Héctor’s shoulder, sore from the guitar strap. The contact gradually became more sensual. He pressed his fingers into Héctor’s neck, slowly wrapped around to his chest and his collarbone. The younger man knew what his friend was up to, but held his tongue. He couldn’t place his feelings on what was being done to him.

Héctor wanted the contact, he knew that, but the context was wrong. He wanted sex to mean more than a simple release of tension, but was not interested in becoming romantic with Ernesto. Despite their intimacy, Hector still regarded Ernesto as his best friend, nothing more. His heart belonged to Imelda, and he felt that sex should be loving like it was with her, not platonic, or whatever else he and Ernesto did could be called. 

“Stop,” he told the other man once Ernesto began to fiddle with the first button on his shirt. Thankfully, he did so, glancing up at Héctor to see his conflicted expression.

“What is it?” Ernesto asked innocently.

The songwriter sighed, pulling his friend’s eager hands off of his body. “How are you so at ease with all of this?”

Ernesto took a moment to understand Héctor’s meaning. 

“We both want pleasure, and this is how we can get it,” the older man said indifferently.

“But doesn’t it bother you at all?” asked Héctor. “Wouldn’t you rather make love to a lady friend- er, or a gentleman friend? A lover?”

“You know I’m not one for romance, Héctor,” said Ernesto, wandering off to find a cigarette in his discarded coat pocket.

“Those girls at the concert would beg to differ. Did you hear those three? They were all, ‘Oooh, Señor de la Cruz! He’s so handsome!’” the songwriter mimicked the lovesick fans at their last venue, batting his lashes mockingly.

Ernesto chuckled at the imitation as he lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and blew smoke across the room. “They’re just swayed by your lyrics.”

“Maybe,” Héctor conceded. “But you can’t deny that you could have anyone you wanted, if you wanted to have a real special someone.”

The well-built musician shook his head at the praise, a small smile creeping onto his face at his friend’s antics.

A thought crossed Héctor’s lips before he could think twice, and he joked, “You don’t love me, do you?”

Ernesto’s features twitched at the suggestion, and he glanced away from his best friend. Héctor suspected that he crossed a line.

“Hey, forget I said anything,” he tried, waving the idea away. Ernesto still seemed disturbed by something, his brow furrowed in some internalized struggle.

After a moment to collect his thoughts, he responded, “I don’t love you. Not like the way you’re thinking of,” the buffer man took a calming drag of his cigarette. “You’re my best friend, and I enjoy everything we do together, sexual or otherwise.”

The songwriter watched Ernesto breathe out a puff of smoke, dissatisfied with his answer. How could this all be so simple to him? Never before had Héctor tried to separate making love with actual love. But, he supposed, he and Ernesto had never “made love” before. It was only sex. 

“But why me? There’s plenty of people who’d be glad to have a quick lay with you,” Héctor said, motioning to their window overlooking the village below. Ernesto regarded the view with distaste after his friend’s suggestion.

“You’re my best friend, Héctor,” Ernesto said, returning to the bedside. “I trust you more than anyone. I’d trust you with my life, my soul, and my body, in this case.”

He offered Héctor a drag of his cigarette. The seated man accepted it, his eyes never leaving Ernesto’s as he took a short drag and blew his smoke away from the man in front of him. 

So Ernesto wanted to do these things with him because he trusted him? It was a good enough reason from the older man’s perspective. Ernesto had never been a very trusting person to begin with, always needing to have some sort of barrier between himself and others, whether it be his usual charming facade or something else. Héctor knew that his friend was too defensive to make real friends other than himself. That being true, building a romantic relationship would be difficult for the other man, never mind finding a quick lay. But what did that mean for Héctor?

“I trust you too,” he said truthfully, handing the cigarette back to his friend, who put the half-finished smoke in an ashtray on the nearby dresser. A thin smile crept onto the other man’s handsome features. 

“While we’re on the subject,” Ernesto laid a heavy hand on Héctor’s shoulder, an ambitious spark in his eye. “Do you want to try something new?”

Héctor froze, an anxious excitement creeping down his spine. Did he actually want this? The sex was amazing, but it was adultery. This new layer to their friendship went against everything the younger man had been taught. 

He watched the last tendrils of hazy smoke rise from the ashtray. 

“Sure,” he answered at last, unable to shake the unease from his soul, but wanting the pleasure. Ernesto smiled, satisfied he got his way as he began to undress Héctor.

Four months of music, alcohol, and confused passion passed. Héctor sent letters home to Imelda and Coco, along with the songs he was working on and most of his earnings. He and Ernesto were more popular than they could ever have hoped for. Word traveled fast of the amazing young musicians touring the country, and they were greeted with a crowd everywhere they went. 

Their popularity thrilled Ernesto, and for the first time in his life, Héctor saw his friend as close to true happiness as he’d ever been. The tour was worth it for that authentic beaming smile alone, as much as it pained Héctor to be away from his family. 

They indulged in each other more and more often as the months wore on, done things together that Héctor hadn’t even done with his wife. It was exciting, and it felt fantastic, but every morning after sent Héctor running to find somewhere to vomit. At first Héctor thought it was the guilt and the hangover, but as the sickness drew on, he began to suspect otherwise.

“Do you think I should see a doctor?” Héctor asked one morning as he made coffee for him and Ernesto. His partner shrugged in response as he took the steaming cup presented to him.

“It could be the stress of the road,” the older man took a sip of his drink. 

“We’ve been on tour for months, I think I’m used to that ‘stress’ by now,” said Héctor in lighthearted annoyance, taking a seat across from Ernesto. The early morning sunlight streamed through their hotel window.

“You have been eating a lot of bar food,” said Ernesto cryptically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the songwriter quipped.

“Well, you have gained a little pouch, mi amigo.”

“What?” Héctor exclaimed. “I have not! I’m as fit as an ox!”

Ernesto made a drawn out whine of disagreement, gesturing at his friend’s middle. Hèctor looked down at himself and was taken by surprise to see the little belly that almost sat in his lap. He let out a shrill scream as he bolted out of his chair in shock, Ernesto slapping his knee in laughter at his friend’s expense.

“You really didn’t know?” the older man snorted.

“No! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Héctor yelled as he ran to the bathroom to find a mirror.

“I thought you knew!” Ernesto called after him.

Pulling up the hem of his pajama shirt, Héctor’s jaw fell open as he took in the changes in his body. His stomach used to be completely flat, almost worryingly so. Now it bulged from his body. Even his chest looked fatter. How hadn’t he noticed it before?

Ernesto suddenly appeared behind his reflection in the mirror. Héctor quickly tugged his shirt down and swung around to his friend, an accusatory finger already pointing at his smug face.

“You! You knew about this, you didn’t tell me!” Héctor said, poking his finger into Ernesto’s muscular chest.

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate the news,” his friend shrugged, knowing his excuse was cheap. “I was right.”

“You bastard! We’ve been eating the same food for months, so how come I’m the one to gain weight?” the songwriter asked angrily, pouting at his best friend.

“You are much thinner than me,” Ernesto offered. “Or, were.”

Héctor punched Ernesto’s stomach hard. 

The following week was tortuous for Héctor now that he knew how much he’d gained. The songwriter noticed his charro suit was too snug around his middle, and he started deliberately using his guitar to hide his stomach during performances. He tried to eat better and drink less, but his efforts were all in vain. Héctor couldn’t escape the bar, its food, or its drink. 

At least Ernesto didn’t mind his belly. After the first day of light teasing, Ernesto let the subject go. He even found some anti-nausea for the sick man to try, but Héctor’s body refused to accept it. Every dose was thrown up before it had the chance to go into effect. The two musicians were both puzzled by his condition, but decided to try to let it pass on its own.

Days later, Héctor’s health became impossible to ignore.

It began as Ernesto tugged off his friend’s pants. There was a faint pain in his middle that Héctor wrote off as indigestion. Another cramp struck as Ernesto prepared him, but the older man couldn’t tell the groan of pain from pleasure. Finally, right before they both properly finished, the pain struck so harshly that it broke Héctor from his blissed-out unawareness.

“Ernesto- Ernesto, stop,” he panted, reaching a hand to wrap around his stomach.

“I’m almost there . . .” the older man drawled, focused on himself.

The pain climaxed as Ernesto did, urging a yell from both men before Héctor kicked his friend off of him. The sudden action brought Ernesto back to reality.

Seeing the younger man curl up on himself, he asked, “What happened? What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” the songwriter tried to breathe through the cramp, but ended up yelping in pain. He’d never felt anything like this before.

“Is it your stomach? Do you feel nauseous?”

The mention of nausea brought bile rising up Héctor’s throat, and he made a mad dash towards the bathroom with Ernesto close behind. He almost didn’t make it to the toilet before he began dry-heaving into it, his stomach feeling worse than before. He heard Ernesto come up behind him.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Héctor turned his head to the doorway and whispered hoarsely, “Could you get me some water, por favor?”

Ernesto seemed to not have heard him. He only stared down at Héctor, an unusual frightened expression overtaking his face.

“Dios mio,” he heard Ernesto murmur before he took a step closer. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Héctor said, alarmed.

“You- your thighs,” Ernesto pointed, the color draining from his face.

Héctor looked down at his legs and saw the streams of blood that rolled down his thighs to his calves. The sight was so shocking that he couldn’t react, frozen in fear. Another pain in his stomach snapped him back to reality.

“I did this,” the older man whispered under his breath, afraid of what was happening to his best friend. “You told me to stop, I didn’t listen. Mi amigo, I’m so sorry, I-”

“I need a doctor,” Héctor interrupted Ernesto before he began to panic. “I need you to bring me to a doctor.”

“Dios mío, Dios mío, Dios mío,” the other man repeated over and over as he rushed to throw on some clothes and wrap Héctor in a blanket before heaving him into his arms. 

Ernesto ran out of the hotel, trying to ignore the moans of agony from his best friend and the blood seeping through the cheap blanket. He asked the first person he came across to direct him to a doctor. The woman, frazzled by the sight of the bleeding young man, showed them the way to the village’s medical center. There Ernesto burst into the waiting room and begged the receptionist for someone to treat Héctor.

She brought them to the town’s doctor, an middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his dark hair. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the sight of Héctor.  
“Put him on the table!” he ordered Ernesto, whose arms were shaking so bad from panic that he nearly dropped Héctor onto the metal surface. 

The doctor unraveled the young man from the blood-soaked blanket and saw his nude, blood-soaked body. He soon found the source of the bleeding and swore under his breath. Ernesto watched in alarm as the doctor began to pull bottles of medicine and surgery instruments from shelves. He hardly noticed the tiny receptionist pulling on his sleeve.

“Señor, please, you need to wait outside,” she begged him to move. “You can’t be in here during an operation.”

“Operation?” Ernesto wailed. 

“You have to go!” the nurse repeated, finally managing to push the larger man out of the room and shutting the door in his face. 

Ernesto stared at the grain of the wood blankly, his thoughts racing to a dark place in his mind. What would he do if his best friend died because of him? How would he continue the tour?

Terrible scenarios ran through Ernesto’s troubled mind as Héctor’s blood dried on his clothes.

. . .

Héctor hissed when another sharp cramp ravaged his body. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes as he watched the doctor scramble for rubber gloves. He could feel the warmth of his blood cover his backside. For the first time, Héctor feared for his life. 

“What’s happening to me?” he bit out before another wave of pain hit. He groaned and tried to curl in on himself, but was stopped by the doctor.

“Internal bleeding, I think,” the doctor diagnosed hastily, forcing Héctor to lie flat on the table. “I need you to answer some questions. Do you have any medical conditions?”

“No, no,” Héctor said through clenched teeth. He kept thinking about Coco and Imelda, and what they’d do without him. A tear rolled down his cheek.

The doctor prepared a syringe, flicking the needle before asking, “Any allergies?”

“No- AYY!” the songwriter yelped as the needle was jabbed into his arm, the doctor administering a painkiller. 

“Were you hit by something? Punched, got into a fight?” 

The pain in his stomach began to dull as the morphine took effect.

“No,” said Héctor, glad to have some relief. Despite no longer being able to feel their full effect, the cramps continued to wreak havoc on Héctor’s body. Even the doctor seemed to pale as he watched the blood pool on his exam table.

With the pain reduced, Héctor was now fully aware of his nudity in front of the stranger. He tried to cover himself with his hands. 

“I’m sorry, Señor, but I need you to move your hands,” the doctor said, pulling a stool to the end of the table. 

“Must you? I feel a lot-” he groaned as the pain rolled through his stomach again. 

The doctor ignored Héctor’s plea. He wasn’t going to let this young man bleed out on his watch, and he was a professional. Nudity was nothing new to him. The older man gently parted Héctor’s trembling legs and began to work. Héctor’s hand flew to cover his mouth as the doctor pressed his fingers into him, afraid of accidentally moaning. His cheeks flushed red from embarrassment.

A minute of uncomfortable silence passed as the doctor examined him. Héctor tried to pretend that he wasn’t bleeding out, and that a stranger wasn’t rummaging through his anus. The dulled pain returned in uncomfortable waves. The young musician watched the doctor’s concentrated expression with bated breath, needing to know what was happening to him. 

Suddenly, Héctor felt the doctor remove his fingers, and Héctor felt a tug deep inside his middle. A bolt of fear shot through the young man as the doctor pulled something large out of him. The thing slipped out of his body and onto the table with an audible squelch. Héctor trembled, terrified of what was happening. 

The unreadable look on the doctor’s face revealed nothing to him, only making his heart race faster in fear. 

“What is it?” he said at last, not daring to look down at himself. “What’s wrong with me?”

The doctor shook his head, not meeting Héctor’s eyes. “That’s not . . . .” he muttered, staring at the shocking sight before him.

The older man’s brow furrowed as his mind raced, struggling to find an answer for his patient.

“Have you- are you,” the doctor stammered, finally looking up to face Héctor with a disturbed expression. “Are you a homosexual?”

“What?” exclaimed Héctor, the question catching him off guard. Why did he think that? Ernesto was always careful not to leave any marks. What did the doctor find?

Against the pain in his middle, Héctor hissed as he sat up and saw the bloody mess between his legs. The sheer amount almost made him pass out, but that wasn’t all. Lying in the doctor’s hand was the thing Héctor felt pulled out of him.

At first, he couldn’t make sense of it. The thing was covered in blood and mucus, and it looked distinctly like muscle tissue. Then Héctor noticed how part of the thing almost resembled a disgusting, bulbous head, set with spots for eyes and a nose and -

The realization had the songwriter bending over the table just in time to vomit onto the tiled floor. He gasped for breath between hurling and choked cries.

Between his legs laid a tiny, underdeveloped baby. The fetus already had little arms and legs, it almost had fingers and toes. Héctor placed a hand over his stomach when the true nature of his distended belly dawned on him. The connection made him vomit again. 

“Are you a homosexual?” the doctor asked once more, unbothered by the mess Héctor made on his floor.

The songwriter shook his head, and through sobs managed, “I have a wife!”

The doctor glanced down at the dead fetus, and then back to Héctor. The incredulous look he sent the younger man brought another cry to his lips. 

“How-how did this happen? I’m not a woman, dios mio, how did this happen?” Héctor wailed, horrified. He couldn’t look away from the little thing below him. 

That tiny baby grew inside him. That was his baby. His and Ernesto’s. 

The doctor stared at the trembling man and the tears streaming down his face. Despite his revulsion, his patient’s question intrigued him, and he took another glance at Héctor’s genitals. 

After a moment, the doctor offered, “It may be a birth defect. Male organs on the outside, and female organs on the inside.”

Héctor’s head swam.

“Do you have any relatives with birth defects?”

An old memory flashed to the front of his mind. He remembered his Mamá comforting his Tía Carmen, who was upset by the teasing of some young men in Santa Cecilia. Tears rolled down her cheeks and into her thick, dark beard. 

Héctor subconsciously wiped the tears from his face.

“My tía,” he answered shakily.

The doctor nodded to himself, expecting the confirmation. He stared at the mess before him and the traumatized man on his table. His bleeding was slowing, and he thankfully hadn’t lost enough blood to require a transfusion. However, the horrible truth of the situation was plain to the doctor. His morals battled against the promises he made as a doctor for a moment before he made a decision.

“The bleeding may continue for another week,” he informed Héctor before carefully picking up the small fetus and placing it on a medical tray by the sink. “It shouldn’t be too heavy of a flow, but if it gets worse than what happened today, come back to see me for a reevaluation.”

The songwriter couldn’t tear his gaze away from the little thing, barely hearing the doctor over the screaming thoughts in his head.

The doctor stripped off his bloody gloves and threw them into the waste bin, “I’ll prescribe you something for the discomfort, and you’ll need cloth to catch the blood.”

He rummaged through a cabinet to Héctor’s right and found a small bottle of pills. 

“These are for you,” he rattled the bottle to grab the younger man’s attention. “One a day. I’d also recommend you abstain from sex until the bleeding stops completely.”

Héctor nodded, trying to keep up with the instructions. He turned back to the discarded fetus on the counter-top.

“Can y-you,” he tried, having to force the question out. “Can you tell what- what it is? Was?”

The doctor arched an eyebrow, not understanding what Héctor meant.

“Was it a girl or a boy?” he clarified shakily.

“Oh,” the doctor said. He went to inspect the tiny body once more. “A girl."

Héctor shut his eyes, another tear escaping down his cheek.

He thought of his Coco. Could that baby on the tray have become a little girl like his own, if it survived? Able to run and play, able to sing with him? He wanted to curl up in some dark place and sob. 

Héctor hadn’t even known about her until now. Why was he so upset over her loss? He hated feeling like this, he hated himself. Why did his body betray him so horribly?

“What’s your name, young man?” asked the doctor. He now worked on cleaning the blood off of his patient’s legs.

“Héctor,” the songwriter answered quietly. “Héctor Rivera.”

“Who was that who brought you in?”

“Ernesto de la Cruz,” he said. The thought of Ernesto knowing everything that happened here made him sick. Ernesto never cared for children, as much as he tried to get along with Coco. How would he react knowing about the . . . .

The word miscarriage hurt Héctor to think about now.

“Is he . . . ?” the doctor trailed off. Héctor understood what he was referring to.

“Yes,” he answered. The doctor acknowledged what he already suspected and continued cleaning. 

Once he was down wiping the blood off of Héctor and the table, the doctor threw the dirty towels into the sink. Héctor watched him grab a mop and a pail from another cabinet. As the doctor filled the pail with water from the sink, a terrifying question occurred to him.

“This can’t happen again, can it?” Héctor asked, hoping the answer was no.

“I can’t promise you anything,” the doctor said, mopping up Héctor’s vomit. “However, I can guarantee you this: if you don’t have relations with other men, you can’t get pregnant.”

The fact that he’d been pregnant, and could get pregnant again, sent Héctor reeling. 

“Dios mío,” he whimpered. 

He could feel the presence of the tiny baby on the counter, still and silent. Héctor never wanted to go through this again. 

Soon, the room was clean, and Héctor was covered by a clean blanket the doctor had fetched for him. 

“Gracias,” said the songwriter. “For everything. Not just the blanket.”

The doctor nodded in response. He only did what he had to. 

His eye caught the sight of the fetus he’d left on the counter. Usually, he’d allow the grieving parents to take the remains home with them, so that they could hold a proper funeral. The exhausted young man on his table was not the mourning mother he was used to.

“Would you like to keep it?” he offered finally, gesturing to the still tiny body. Héctor starred, his emotions heavy in his heart. For once, he knew for certain what he wanted.

“Yes, please,” he answered, his voice trembling. The doctor nodded and set to work wrapped the baby in a clean towel. He dug a small cardboard box from the cabinet under the counter and placed the bundle inside of it.

Héctor began to slide off of the table, and placed some of his weight on his legs experimentally. Finding himself strong enough to stand, he slid of the table completely and walked slowly to take the box from the doctor’s hands. The older man handed it to the grieving songwriter. 

The box weighed almost nothing, despite its contents. A dark wave washed over Héctor as he brought the box to his chest. 

The doctor pressed another parcel into Héctor’s hands. “This is your medicine and some cloth. For the blood,” he said. 

“Gracias,” said the songwriter. The recovery was going to be hell, physically and emotionally.

The doctor, noticing Héctor’s dark, blank expression, offered, “Would you like me to inform Señor de la Cruz-?”

“No,” Héctor cut him off. “No, please don’t. I’ll tell him everything.”

With that, the doctor led Héctor into the waiting room with a hand on his shoulder. Pacing amongst the row of chairs was Ernesto, anxiously biting his nails, an old habit from when they were young. When he saw Héctor enter the room, appearing forlorn and tired, but healthy, a small weight lifted off his shoulders.

“Héctor!” he ran to his best friend, placing his hands on his shoulders. “Oh, gracias a Dios, you’re alright.”

The songwriter’s frown deepened at the comment. He was sure he wouldn’t be alright for a long time.

Ernesto turned to the doctor and asked, “What was wrong with him?”

The doctor paused. “He’ll be fine,” was all he could say.

“But what was wrong with him?” Ernesto pressed, desperate to know.

“I’ll tell you when we get back at the hotel,” Héctor spoke up, the meekness and exhaustion in his voice catching Ernesto off guard. At once, he knew something dreadful had happened.

He looked back to the doctor, and began, “But-”

“Please, Ernesto. I want to go home,” Héctor begged, tears threatening to fall again. He couldn’t stay here any longer. All he wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep forever.

Ernesto, caught off guard by the glassy eyed, pleading look his best friend gave him, gave in. 

The two men paid the doctor for his services and the medicine. The walk back to the hotel took much longer than the trip to the medical center, now that Héctor couldn’t walk without hissing and grasping at his stomach. The painkiller was starting to wear off, and his middle was unbearably sore from the trauma of the miscarriage. Ernesto and Héctor received concerned stares from everyone they passed. The songwriter was only wearing a blanket, and Ernesto’s shirt was stained with an ugly red smear.

When they finally returned to their room, Héctor set down the box and the bag of medicine before letting the blanket that covered him drop to the floor. Ignoring Ernesto’s concerned stare, he carefully pressed his a finger into his bloated middle. Yesterday the small belly had been firm, and now it gave away easily, feeling loose and flabby. 

“Héctor?” Ernesto said, placing a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Immediately, Héctor batted Ernesto’s hand off of him. 

“Don’t touch me,” he seethed weakly. Feeling too exposed in front of his best friend, he grabbed a bathrobe off the back of a nearby chair and slipped it on.

“Héctor,” Ernesto tried again, somewhat taken aback by his friend’s actions. “Are you alright?”

The songwriter didn’t respond. Instead, he returned to the box sitting on the card table and picked it up. Its contents weighed heavy on his soul. 

Héctor turned slowly to his best friend, keeping his eyes on the small package. He took a deep breath.

“No, I’m not alright.” he answered, his voice wavering. How was he supposed to tell his friend something so earth-shattering? He regretted not letting the doctor explain to Ernesto.

“I’m so sorry,” the older man whispered, extending his arms and coming in to embrace Héctor. 

The taller man recoiled from his best friend and hugged the box closer to his body. 

“Don’t touch me,” he repeated with more force. Ernesto stopped in his tracks, his expression crestfallen.

“Please, tell me what happened,” the larger man pleaded quietly, giving Héctor some space. 

“I . . . I’m like my tía,” he said, trying to explain as best he could. “I’m different, like she was. I- oh, Dios !”

The songwriter began to cry freely. Ernesto, frightened by his friend’s behavior, waited for him to continue.

“I wasn’t getting fat, Ernesto!” he wailed in despair, tears rolling down his cheeks as he clutched the small cardboard box. “I was pregnant!”

Ernesto’s eyes widened comically. In different circumstances, Héctor would have found the shell-shocked expression on his friend’s face hysterical. Now there was no place for humor.

Another moment passed and the other man was shaking his head in denial.

“That’s impossible,” he said, trying to rationalize the tragedy away. “You’re a man. I know you’re a man.”

The memory of Santa Cecilia’s bearded woman, Héctor’s tía, surfaced in Ernesto’s mind. He recalled her hairy face and strange, deep voice with a growing sense of dread.  
For the first time, he noticed the way Héctor was holding onto the box in his hands. The wording “I was pregnant” rang like an alarm in his head.

“Dios mío,” he whispered, realizing what had happened. He remembered how sick Héctor had been every morning, and how strange the shape of his stomach was. The blood and the stomach pains from earlier . . .

“I lost the baby,” Héctor sobbed, runny snot dripping from his nose. His shoulders shook from the force of his crying, and he breathed in choked gasps.

Ernesto stood in his place, expression draining from his face. He didn’t want to accept the horrible truth. For a moment, he tried to deny it, to ignore the box in his grieving friend’s hands, but it was impossible. There was nothing he could do to make this better.

The older man eyed the box again, guilt and building despair growing in his chest when he asked, “May I see?”

The hand extended to him caught Héctor off guard. He brought his teary eyes to meet Ernesto’s and saw he was serious. After little thought, he carefully placed the precious package into his best friend’s waiting hand. 

With an unreadable expression, Ernesto brought the little box closer to himself. He turned his back to Héctor so he didn’t need to see what was inside again. With shaky hands, he opened the folds of the box and saw the tiny, blood-splotched bundle. Ernesto held his breath and he gradually unwrapped the towel from around its contents.

The musician almost gagged at the sight of the fetus. He was quick to cover it again with the towel and close the box. It was so inhuman looking that Ernesto had trouble connecting it to a real baby. The knowledge that this tiny corpse was his child shook him to the core of his being. 

Eager to get the box away from him, he set it back on the card table. Ernesto didn’t need to see Héctor to know that the taller man was watching his every move. 

He turned to face his best friend, taking in how terrible he looked after the ordeal he’d been through.

“You need rest,” Ernesto said at last, leading Héctor to the fresh bed next to the one they used earlier that day. 

Héctor nodded in agreement, sending one last meaningful glance to the box on the table before crawling under the covers. Unsurprisingly, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Ernesto watched his friend sleep for a minute, making sure he was alright before sighing and undressing for bed himself.


	3. How Could We Have Known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Sugar_cane, Ally265, Myouki_Kuroki, MariVent, and all the guests that left kudos!  
> This is one of the longer chapters, hope you enjoy.

The next week brought a slew of new challenges. They had to postpone the tour until Héctor was well enough to move onto the next town, and paying for the hotel without performing concerts began to drain their finances. As the money disappeared, so did Ernesto’s spirit. He needed to be back on the road, but Héctor was, he admitted finally, holding him back.

The songwriter only left his bed to use the restroom and clean the blood that still appeared on his inner thighs. He was depressed and broken. To Héctor, there was nothing to be said, and nothing to be done. Where he was uncomfortable with his and Ernesto’s interactions before the “accident,” as the larger man called it, thinking about what they did together made his soul burn with self-hatred. Héctor couldn’t believe he’d let himself fall so low as to cheat on Imelda and then feel, for a short moment, okay with doing so. 

This was his punishment. The pregnancy he’d been ignorant of, the death of his child, and the continual bleeding.

Ernesto had different feelings about what had happened. He didn’t blame Héctor for the miscarriage, and he didn’t think any less of him for the revelation that he had some invisible birth defect. What happened, happened, and there was nothing either of them could do except move on. Ernesto did hold a grudge against Héctor in that regard. The songwriter hadn’t held his guitar in a week. They needed to keep performing, or risk losing everything they worked for.

Héctor insisted on keeping the box containing the fetus underneath his bed, but after a couple days, their room began to reek of decay. Ernesto couldn’t tell if the songwriter noticed the stench or not. 

The day that Ernesto came into the bedroom and nearly gagged was the day he decided he’d had enough. 

“You can’t live like this anymore,” he pleaded with Héctor, sitting on the edge of his bed. The other man refused to acknowledge him. He stared at the opposite wall with a dead expression that Ernesto had no more patience for. 

“We’re almost out of money, Héctor,” he continued. “We need to keep moving.”

Héctor’s darkened eyes found his friend’s face. “I can’t,” he murmured.

“You can’t what?” Ernesto pressed, exasperated with his friend’s depressed behavior. “You can’t pick up your guitar and suffer through one song so you can eat?”

Héctor shrugged, indifferent to his health.

“Fine,” Ernesto huffed. “One song so your family can eat?”

“Don’t you bring them into this,” seethed Héctor, aiming a sharp glare at the other musician. 

“I bet they’re wondering where the money you promised them is by now,” he said, knowing he was striking a nerve. Ernesto was desperate to elicit any sort of reaction from Héctor to get him out of bed, even if it was anger.

Inspired by a sudden, overpowering rage towards his best friend, Héctor shot up in bed. He gave Ernesto no time to brace himself before he struck him across his cheek. A vivid red handprint appeared on the abused skin. The larger man stared at the furious songwriter in shocked silence, unable to comprehend what he’d done. 

“How can you act like it never happened!” Héctor roared. “How can you ignore it? I can smell her under this damn bed, and you act like everything is fine!”

Ernesto stood, touching his hand to his tender cheek.

“Nothing about this is fine,” the older man grit through his teeth.

“How could you even think about continuing the tour?” Héctor fumed through his exhaustion. The bags under his eyes and the pale sheen of his complexion matched with the rage of his expression set Ernesto on edge.

“Oh, so what do you recommend I do, lay around in misery all day? Starve myself? Give up on our dream entirely?” Ernesto retorted.

“This was never my dream!” The younger man exclaimed, finally standing out of bed and glowering over Ernesto. “All I ever wanted was a family, and I have that in Santa Cecilia.” 

Ernesto gaped at his best friend, shaking his head in denial. Héctor appeared almost like a stranger before him.

“You promised me you’d finish the tour,” he argued, weakly at first. “We were going to play for the world.”

Héctor shook his head, “I don’t want that anymore.”

The revelation made Ernesto’s head reel. The songwriter could not have betrayed him more bitterly than he did now. 

“Why?” was all Ernesto could ask.

The songwriter sighed heavily, his exhaustion catching up to him. He and Ernesto had been best friends since childhood, and Héctor never thought that they’d come to this.

“I can’t stay with you after everything that’s happened between us,” he mustered the courage to look Ernesto in the eye as he confessed. “I want to be with my family.”

The other musician shook his head in denial, watching his dream slip though his fingers. This couldn’t be happening, not when they were so close.

“You said I was your family, once,” Ernesto said, trying to appeal to his friend. 

Héctor didn’t know what to say to Ernesto. He’d made up his mind about his feelings towards the other man, but he held his tongue. Even after everything Ernesto put him through, he couldn’t bring himself to tell him the painful truth.

“I did,” Héctor conceded, his tone sullen and remorseful. 

Ernesto’s heart stopped at the neutral response, the past tense. At once he knew what Héctor was trying to convey. His soul fell at the betrayal while his heart filled with carefully hidden rage. 

He remembered his agonizing wait at the medical center, and how he’d thought of what he would do without Héctor by his side. At first, he’d thought his dream was lost, but the more he thought the more he realized.

Ernesto had known that the tour could go on without the songwriter for nearly a week. He had all the musical and vocal talent he needed to succeed, and, if Héctor had died from the miscarriage, Ernesto would have used the unwillingly abandoned songs as his own. Héctor’s lyrical gifts were all he was missing from fulfilling his dream.

It was then that Ernesto made his decision.

Collecting himself, he said, “I understand.”

Héctor had the gall to appear ashamed. “I’m sorry, mi amigo. Just, knowing what we did . . . I can’t stay away from my girls any longer. I want to go home.”

“How will you provide for them?” Ernesto asked with false concern. 

“We’ll find a way,” Héctor said, and sat on his bed and sighed again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. I know how much the tour means to you . . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” the older man said, taking a seat on the opposite bed. “I, too, will find a way.”

The next day, Héctor quickly packed up his things, hoping to catch the next train out of town. He was unable to find his pain medicine, but decided that he’d manage without it. Ernesto watched the songwriter throw his songbook onto his clothes haphazardly before shutting his suitcase. 

“I guess this is goodbye,” Héctor said somberly, facing Ernesto. If his arms weren’t occupied with carrying his guitar, luggage, and the small box containing his daughter, he may have given his best friend one last hug.

“I guess so,” the other musician repeated, eyes darting to the tequila and shot-glasses that laid on the table. 

Héctor’s lips wavered, wanting to say more, but finding nothing more to be said. He nodded to his companion, and with one last meaningful look over Ernesto, turned to leave.

“Wait, Héctor,” Ernesto called to his friend at the threshold. “If you must go, then I’m- I’m sending you off with a toast.”

Héctor turned back to his friend and then back to the door. The train would be arriving soon, and he couldn’t miss it. Though, he could afford his friend this last favor.

“To our friendship,” the older man said as Héctor set his luggage down. 

With nervous, shaking hands, he poured the tequila into the two glasses. Then, without Héctor noticing, Ernesto quickly tipped the concealed bottle of the stolen pills he’d crushed into a fine powder into one of the shots. Facing his friend again, Ernesto presented Héctor with the poisoned drink.

“I would move Heaven and Earth for you, mi amigo,” he said, raising his glass in celebration of his soon-to-be-successful plot. “Salud!”

At that, the two men drank. Later that night, Héctor Rivera collapsed in the middle of a nameless road. The train left the station while his corpse was still warm. 

. . .

Héctor woke up with what felt like the worst hangover of his life. Groaning, he held a hand over his eyes as he sat up. Why was he on the floor and not  
in bed? 

The realization that he missed the train brought Héctor scrambling to his feet as he finally saw where he was. He wasn’t in the street anymore, or even the hotel. It was a room he didn’t recognize, tiled and official looking. The wall was lined with bright gas lanterns, and across the room was a large plaque that read ‘Bienvenido!’.

“What the . . .” he trailed off, spinning to look at it all. 

A handle on the door next to his right jiggled. The door swung open, and Héctor braced for a word from a policeman. He couldn’t remember drinking anything besides that single shot from earlier, but perhaps he and Ernesto had gone to a bar afterwards. His memory was always spotty after a couple of drinks. However, in place of an angry cop stood a figure that made Héctor scream. 

Before him stood a skeleton clad in a plain white, button-down shirt with a dark neck tie and black dress pants. Brown eyes in blackened sockets watched him panic.

“Dios mío, stay away from me!” he scrambled to the farthest wall.

To Héctor’s surprise, the skeleton spoke, “Please Seńor, don’t be afraid.”

“Afraid?” Héctor repeated with an incredulous tone. “You’re- you’re a skeleton!”

“Yes, I am,” he said. He entered the room slowly, careful not to spook the young man. Under his arm was a clipboard, and in his hand was a pen. “My name is Edgar Alvarez, and I’ll be your processor today.”

“Processor?” the songwriter wailed. “What are you going to do? Kill me, grind me up? Make me into chorizo?”

The skeleton, Señor Alvarez, laughed then, his ribcage shaking and clunking.

“Ay, no, I’m not here to kill you,” the skeleton explained with an amused grin. “I’m here to help you with your paperwork and processing into the Land of the Dead. Welcome, by the way.” 

“The Land the Dead?” Héctor gawked, confused. “But that’s- that’s impossible. I’m not dead! I was alive last night!” This had to be a hallucination, there was no other explanation. 

Did he smoke something funny last night? What happened after he collapsed? 

Despite not having eyebrows, Señor Alvarez somehow quirked a brow, “You look dead to me, amigo.”

“What-?” Héctor looked down at himself, half expecting to find blood on his clothes. He was still wearing his pink charro suit and appeared just as he always did. 

“Your hands, Señor,” the skeleton specified.

Héctor raised his hands to his face and screamed again. No flesh stuck to the white, pearly bones. In a panic, he felt his face and found that he was touching his own skull. 

Another scream of terror erupted from his throat. Rather, what would have been his throat, if he were still alive.

“I know this is a lot to take in, but please try to calm down,” said Señor Alvarez gently. “This happens to everyone.”

Héctor shook his head in disbelief, “No, no, I can’t be dead. My daughter, my wife, they need me!”

The skeleton sent him a pitying look.

“I’m sorry chamaco. We all leave family behind, and it’s unfortunate that you passed so young,” he sympathized. 

“I was on my way home to them,” Héctor lamented as despair set into his bones. His thoughts raced to a dark place in his mind. Imelda and Coco needed him, and he needed them. 

“I know it’s hard,” the skeleton said, reaching to put a comforting hand on Héctor’s shoulder. In his shock, the songwriter allowed him to. “But you’ll see them again some day. Everyone comes to the Land of the Dead eventually, and when they do, you’ll be able to see them.”

Héctor nodded absently, still staring at his hands. He couldn’t believe it. The memory of collapsing in the street on the way to the train came to his mind. Was that how he died?

“But, in the meantime,” began Señor Alvarez, readying his pen and clipboard. “Let’s get your paperwork started.”

The skeleton led the new arrival through the door he came from and into a small office. On the other wall was another door made of fogged glass. “New Arrivals” was printed on the outside of the glass, and Héctor could see shadows of people- skeletons, he figured- walking about outside.

“Take a seat,” Señor Alvarez instructed, sitting in a leather chair on the other side of the desk.

Hesitantly, Héctor sat in chair closest to him. The hardwood against his pelvis sent visible shivers up his spine.

“The Bureau requires that you provide us with some information so that you can become a registered resident of the Land of the Dead,” the skeleton man explained, clicking his pen. “It can take a while, so please be patient. We’ll reunite you with your deceased family as quickly as possible.”

Héctor nodded, noticing more and more about his new body, or rather, lack of one. The reality of the situation that Imelda would have to wait (Héctor hoped) for decades to be with him again, and thinking about Coco growing up without him brought on another wave of despair.

The questions from Señor Alvarez were easy to answer. What was Héctor’s full name, where and when was he born, when and where he died. The other skeleton finished writing his last response, “Could you please explain how you died?”

The young skeleton numbly recounted the fatal walk to the train station.

“Do you know the cause of your death?” Señor Alvarez asked. “I know it may be a sore subject, but we need to have it on record.”

Héctor thought over the event. All he remembered was feeling a few sudden pains in his stomach, and then he fell unconscious. In his last moments alive, Ernesto suggested that the pain could have been from the chorizo he’d had for lunch, but Héctor doubted that was the reason. The pains were too familiar to the ones he experienced earlier that week.

“Must I?” asked the songwriter. He didn’t want to tell the story to this stranger.

“Sí, it’s for the record,” confirmed Señor Alvarez. “However, we recognize that the cause of your death is personal information. Outside parties cannot access this document without proper legal cause.”

Héctor thought it over. He didn’t plan to commit any crimes in his afterlife if he could avoid it, so he supposed telling the processor was okay. Certainly the other skeleton wouldn’t tell anyone the tragic tale.

“Last week I went to the doctor for stomach pains. I was bleeding from, ah, down there,” Héctor explained sheepishly. Dios, he didn’t want to tell this man his story, but what other choice did he have? “I had a miscarriage.”

Señor Alvarez gave Héctor an incredulous look. “A what?” he asked, sure he misheard.

“A miscarriage,” the songwriter repeated. “The doctor, he told me that I probably had woman’s organs on the inside.”

The other man couldn’t believe him, “Señor Rivera, please take this seriously.”

“I’m not lying,” Héctor said, eyes downcast. “Dios, I wish I was . . . .”

Señor Alvarez watched Héctor’s posture sink and the disturbed expression on his face. After a moment, he decided that the young man was probably telling the truth. It wouldn’t have been the strangest death he’d recorded.

“I’m sorry that happened,” he said sincerely. “And you believe it was the cause of your death?”

Héctor nodded solemnly. He never should have gotten evolved with Ernesto. His bad judgement cost him his life, and the livelihood of Imelda and Coco. The sound of the pen against the paper writing down his story made him feel even worse. At least Señor Alvarez didn’t ask him about how the miscarriage came to be.

“Did your child survive?” the other skeleton asked gently.

“No, she was stillborn,” Héctor nearly whispered. The loss was painful to recount.

“Then we should be able to reunite you with her,” said Señor Alvarez.

The young skeleton’s eyes bulged out of their sockets in surprise. 

“You can?” he asked, a faint hope presenting itself to him. 

“I’m sure we can find a way,” the processor said. “You said she only passed last week?”

“Sí, sí,” Héctor’s spirits rose considerably. 

“New records like her’s are easy to find,” Señor Alvarez said, shuffling through Héctor’s paperwork. “Once we finish your processing, I’ll walk you to the Department of Family Reunions. They can help you find all of your deceased family.”

“Oh, gracias, Señor,” Héctor breathed a sigh of relief. The tickling feeling of air blowing through his exposed spine was going to be an adjustment for him. He hardly noticed the off-putting sensation through his anticipation.

A thought occurred to him then about something Señor Alvarez mentioned, and Héctor asked, “You can find all of my dead family?”

“Sí,” the processor nodded. “They can help you adjust to living here. Though, I suppose ‘living’ isn’t the best word to use, eh?”

Héctor chuckled awkwardly. 

. . .

Half and hour later Señor Alvarez led Héctor to the Department of Family Reunions. The sights they saw on the way made the songwriter’s head spin, literally, he noticed. He squeaked in surprise when his skull turned unnaturally far to look at another skeleton passed by.

“You’ll get used to it,” the older skeleton said as he held the door for Héctor. 

The inside of the Department of Family Reunions was enormous. A waiting room with hundreds of chairs full of skeleton families filled the space, excited to see their newly deceased relatives again. Señor Alvarez directed Héctor towards a long desk on the war wall, bypassing the lines of skeletons checking in for their appointment. 

“Hola, Señora Pérez,” his guide greeted the receptionists flirtatiously. The skeleton lady rolled her eyes, apparently accustomed to his antics.

“Please be professional, Señor Alvarez,” she chastised him. “What do you need?”

The skeleton man handed her Héctor’s paperwork, unfazed by her small rejection, “Do you have any reunion rooms open? I have a new arrival here.”

The lady gave Héctor a look up and down. The newly deceased waved sheepishly, giving her a small smile.

She checked her files and said, “Number 236 is available.”

“Thank you, Señora,” said Señor Alvarez, beckoning Héctor to follow him. The older skeleton brought him through a labyrinth of hallways and doors before reaching the correct room. 

He led Héctor inside. There were a couple chairs along the wall, as well as a small desk. Behind the desk sat another employee, who looked up from her work when they entered.

“Hello! Welcome to the Land of the Dead,” she greeted them cheerily, rising to shake Héctor’s hand. The feeling of bone-on-bone was unsettling.

“Please, pull up a seat,” she gestured for him to bring a chair to her desk. 

Héctor did so hastily, cringing at the sharp screeching the foot of the chair made against the floor. He plopped into the seat.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Señor Alvarez as he walked towards the door. “And Héctor, if you ever need me again, just ask for me at the Department of New Arrivals.”

“Oh, gracias,” the songwriter said before the other man shut the door.

“Héctor, was it?” she brought his attention back to her. “How can I help you today?”

“I- he said you can help me find my family? My dead family,” he said, referring to Señor Alvarez.

“Of course. Can you give me their names?” the skeleton lady asked, preparing to write down his answer.

“My mamá, María Rivera, and my tía, Carmen de Santiago,” Héctor said. His mamá and tía both, unfortunately, died of fever two years ago. Carmen was nursing his sick sister when she also caught the illness. Before last week, their deaths had been the worst moments of Héctor’s life. 

“And, I- ah,” he stammered, remorse building in his soul. “My daughter.”

At the mention of his child, the woman glanced at Héctor’s sad expression.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said sincerely. “What is her name?”

“I never named her,” Héctor said. “I- she was miscarried. It happened last week.”

The lady skeleton’s face fell in sympathy, and then resolution. “We’ll find her, don’t you worry.”

Héctor could only nod along in hope. Despite the fact that his daughter never lived, and that her arrival had been a terrible shock, Héctor couldn’t help his paternal feelings. She was his mija, just like Coco. He couldn’t abandon both his children in his death. 

While the receptionist made some calls to summon his mamá and tía, Héctor accidentally nodded off in his chair. He was exhausted from the revelations of the day. When the lady skeleton noticed the soft snoring of the man before her, she smiled and let him sleep. She remembered how stressful her first day in the Land of the Dead had been. An hour passed as she worked to make sure Héctor was reunited with all his family.

Héctor slept until the loud bang of the door being thrown open startled him awake. He flew out of his chair with a yell and turned to the source of the jarring noise. The anger he felt for the rude awakening dissolved when he saw who stood in the threshold.

Two skeleton women stared at Héctor in shock, their hands fluttering over where there hearts had been in life. The lady closest to him wore a worse-for-wear red dress with a yellowed apron, and her long black hair was wrapped into a bun at the base of her neck. The other woman, larger than her sister, had on a light blue dress. Peculiarly, but familiarly to Héctor, her jaw was covered in thick, dark hair. It was surreal to see the women who raised him as walking, talking skeletons.

“Héctor!” Mamá María tackled her son, squeezing him tight against her body. 

“Ay, Mamá!” cried Héctor, hugging his mother just as tightly. A tear escaped his eye. Despite the fact that she died only two years ago, it had felt like an eternity since he last saw her.

His mamá sobbed, “It’s too soon, mijo! It’s far too soon.”

“I know, Mamá,” the songwriter lamented into his mother’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry . . . .”

He lifted his head and saw his aunt crying silently in the threshold, wanting her sister to have a moment with her son alone. Héctor gestured for her to join them with a tearful smile. The woman wailed and quickly piled onto family’s embrace. They stayed that way for as long as they could, crying from the unfair fate of Héctor and from the joy of their reunion.


	4. This Would Be The Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, guys, really appreciate y'all. Enjoy.

“Mi sobrino,” Tía Carmen began, calming from the emotion of seeing her nephew again. “How did this happen?”

Héctor stilled, seeing the overwhelming concern and happiness for their reunion in Tía Carmen’s face. Her beard was glistening with fresh tears, a terrible reminder of his own nature. The woman before him had lived a long life of torment because of her body. Héctor’s body had been the cause of his premature death, but chance allowed him a happy life, unlike his tía.

A glance to his mamá showed that she shared the expression, silently asking the same question as her sister. 

“I . . . .” he paused, noticing the skeletal receptionist watching the family reunion intently. He’d rather not let her overhear the story. “‘I’ll tell you later.”

Mamá María grasped Hector closer to her and whispered motherly comforts into shoulder. “It’s alright, mijo, I know, I know . . . .” she trailed off, assuming it the memory was painful for her son. Indeed, it was. 

The receptionist took a step towards the huddle and coughed to grab their attention.

“Señor Rivera, I’ve received word that your daughter is going to be brought here soon,” she told him, a pleasant yet hesitant smile on her features. She needed to tell the family that their little one was on her way, despite the shock it would cause.

An excited anxiousness rushed through Héctor before being extinguished by his mamá’s gasp.

“Coco! Héctor, Coco isn’t here, is she?” the woman exclaimed, shaking Héctor by the jacket of his charro suit. “Por favor, tell me she isn’t here yet!”

“Ay no! No, Coco’s fine Mamá, she’s alive,” he calmed his mother’s hiccuping sobs before admitting, “She isn't talking about Coco.”

Héctor watched his Mamá’s flash through relief, to confusion, and then to despair again. “Another granddaughter?” her teary eyes looked into Héctor’s for confirmation. 

The young skeleton nodded slowly. His mamá’s face contorted in grief as she wept into him once more. It was a tragedy for her son to have died so young, only twenty-one, but the death of a baby? Another despaired sob escaped from the crying woman.

Tía Carmen laid a comforting hand on her sister’s back, sharing her mourning. However, she managed to quickly calm herself. If she learned anything in life worthwhile, it was to deal with hardship.

“There is no use in lamenting over something we can’t change,” said Tía Carmen in her strange, deep voice. “All we can do is accept it.”

The bearded skeleton directed her attention to Héctor’s saddened expression. “What is my great-niece’s name, sobrino?” she asked him in a soft voice, trying to lift the young man’s mood.

Héctor shook his head, eyes downcast. “I never had the chance to name her,” he said.

Tía Carmen rubbed Héctor’s shoulder comfortingly, sending him a sympathizing look.

“I’m sure whatever name you choose for her will be beautiful, Héctor,” she said, giving her nephew another hug. “She’ll have the best Papá in the whole Land of the Dead.”

Héctor nodded solemnly along to his aunt’s praises. He wanted to be reunited with his youngest daughter, he knew that, but the thought of seeing her filled him with mixed emotions. If he knew he was pregnant beforehand, could he have prevented the miscarriage? Would he have been able to deliver her safely? He imagined how terrible it would have been if he’d come home to Imelda with another baby in his arms, proof of his betrayal. 

While he admitted that it may have been better if she was never conceived, Héctor wouldn’t leave her for his convenience. He had escaped the consequences of sleeping with Ernesto for too long.  
“Are you the Rivera’s?” asked a new voice.

Turning to the threshold, the small family noticed a short skeleton lady standing in the hall outside. Bright pink petals decorated her cheekbones. She wore a simple white dress, and her hair was kept neatly in a nurse’s cap. She held a small bundle of blankets in her arms.

Héctor felt his world shift as his eyes landed on the bundle. “Sí,” he said quietly.

“I came as soon as I got the message,” the nurse said with happy smile, approaching the three emotional skeletons. “I’ve been caring for your daughter ever since she came here. I’m so glad that we could reunite her with you all so fast.”

“Can I see her?” Héctor asked, anxious yet apprehensive to have his daughter in his arms once more.

The nurse grinned, “Of course, Señor.” 

She strode over to the songwriter and gently presented him with the small bundle. The moment suddenly reminded him of when he’d first held Coco the day she was born. The happy thought in his mind, Héctor gladly accepted the bundle with practiced ease. He pushed his fears away as looked down at what he held in his arms.

Inside the small assortment of blankets was the tiny skeleton of a baby. Her head was impossibly large compared to the rest of her body. The baby squirmed a little, moving her little legs before curling up again. 

In her sockets laid a set of beautiful brown eyes that skimmed over Héctor’s face, then the faces of his family that peaked into the bundle to see her.

“She’s precious,” Mamá María cooed, wiping the drying tears from her cheekbones. Her mind wandered how her poor daughter-in-law was coping with the loss of both her baby and her husband, and she wept quietly.

“Oh, look how tiny she is,” Tía Carmen gushed, momentarily forgetting the tragic reality of the situation in the sight of the little skeleton. 

"So small . . .” Héctor agreed, enraptured by the baby in his arms. 

Her occasional little squirms and the roaming of her eyes were the only indications that she was alive, for lack of a better word. She was so, so much smaller than Coco had been, smaller than she was when Héctor first saw her. Bright green and yellow swirls graced her cheekbones, and soft purple dots circled her eye sockets, framing rich brown eyes darker than Héctor’s own. A fleeting disappointment flashed across his mind when he realized her eyes resembled Ernesto’s. 

Paternal concern overcame Héctor, and he asked the nurse, “She’s so quiet. Is that normal?”

“Oh, sí,” said the nurse. “Since she never used her voice in life, she can’t make any noises in death. I assure you, Señor Rivera, that your daughter is perfectly healthy.”

If he was in the mood for humor, Héctor would have chuckled at the comment. The irony that his baby could be both dead and perfectly healthy was not lost on him.

“I’m so glad,” Tía Carmen spoke on her family’s behalf. “Will she be able to come home with us tonight?”

“Of course, right after we fill out some quick paperwork,” said the nurse, turning to the receptionist who quietly observed the scene from the back of the room. “Do you happen to have an extra processing slip?”

The receptionist nodded and took a seat at her desk, “Sí, all I need is Señor Rivera’s help filling it out.”

The Rivera family migrated over to the desk, Héctor’s mamá and tía each pulling up their own chair while Héctor sat in the one he had before. Out of habit, he gently rocked his tiny daughter in his arms. He smiled as he watched her eyes slowly drift shut.

“Have you thought of a name for her, Señor?” the receptionist asked, readying her pen against the paper. 

Héctor thought for a moment, staring down a the tiny bundle of bones in his arms. Adorably, she seemed to nuzzle into the blankets closer to his body.

“Almara,” he decided at last, tracing a skeletal finger against his daughter’s skull. “Almara Carmen Rivera.”

Tía Carmen gasped in surprise and placed a hand over her chest. 

“You’re naming your daughter after me, sobrino?” she asked, sending Héctor an incredulous, yet hopeful look. 

After Coco was born, his mamá and his tía were with Héctor and Imelda chose her name. Her first name, Socorro, was to Imelda's choice, and her middle name honored Mamá María. Back then, before the birth, Tía Carmen asked her nephew to never name any of his children after her. The bearded lady hated the idea of her great-niece being teased for sharing her name. However, little Almara would never have the chance to be bullied by other children. 

“With your permission, Tía Carmen,” said Héctor, staring into her damp amber eyes. 

The bearded skeleton wiped at her eyes, nodding vigorously, “Almara Carmen, it’s a good name. Oh, gracias, Héctor, gracias.”

Héctor leaned his head on his Tía’s shoulder, the closest thing to a hug he could give her with baby Almara in his arms. Mamá María smiled at the sweet moment shared between her son and sister.

“What was the cause of her death?” the receptionist brought the Rivera’s attention back to the task at hand, unintentionally dampening their lifting spirits.

The young man sombered as the event flashed through his mind again. A moment passed before he managed to answer, “Miscarriage."

He heard Mamá María whisper under her breath, “Pobrecita, pobre Imelda.”

The songwriter promised to correct her later.

Finally, after a few signatures and some instructions from the nurse for caring for Almara, Héctor and his family were free to go. 

“I’ll walk you to the exit,” the nurse offered as the receptionist finished Almara’s paperwork. 

“Gracias, Señora,” Mamá María thanked the woman warmly.

Héctor shook the receptionist’s hand in gratitude and followed his family into the hall. The maze was no less confusing the second time around, but they reached the waiting room before the turns could become dizzying. The nurse led them to the exit, a wall lines with revolving glass doors.

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” said the nurse, stopping before the exit. “When your daughter’s mamá comes to the Land of the Dead, whenever that may be, it’s important that you reunite her with the baby as soon as possible.”

“Why’s that?” asked Héctor, trying to be nonchalant. As strange as it was, the young man supposed, he was Almara’s mother. The nurse clearly didn’t suspect it, but the young man was still worried about being found out.

“Babies who died before they were born are more comfortable when in a familiar environment,” said the nurse. “That is, inside their mamá.”

Héctor swallowed, “How do I- how will she do that?”

“When you reunite with her, tell her to hold to baby between her ribcage and pelvis,” explained the nurse, gesturing to her middle. “The baby then floats in her middle on its own. I’m afraid you’ll have to find some looser clothing for her, too. Most dresses are made to be form-fitting in the Land of the Dead.” 

Indeed, the songwriter noticed how the dresses of the women hugged their spines. Héctor was thankful that the men wore normal shirts. 

“Gracias, Señora . . . .?” he trailed off, realizing he never caught the nurse’s name.

“Señora Martínez. And,” said the nurse, “if you ever need me, you can reach me at Hospital de la Catrina. Women’s Health wing.”

“Ah, gracias,” Héctor repeated, wondering why a hospital would be needed when all the patients were already dead. To address cases like his, he supposed.

“Come on, Héctor, let’s go home,” Mamá María beckoned him out the doors of the Department of Family Reunions.

“Have a good day!” nurse Martínez waved cheerily the small family goodbye as they left. “And welcome to the Land of the Dead!”

Héctor returned the gesture to the nurse before his aunt ushered him through the fogged glass revolving doors and into the world beyond them. 

The view before him made Héctor’s jaw drop and clatter on the stone ground. The act would have surprised him further if he the sight of the sprawling city before him was any less enrapturing. Hundreds of brightly colored towers spread as far as the eye could see, circled by cobblestone streets. Distantly, he could see other skeletons walking around. Hanging trolleys were strung between towers. The sunrise cast a warm, gentle glow spreading across the beautiful city.

“What do you think, mijo?” Mamá María asked as she reaffixed her son’s jaw.

“It’s amazing,” said Héctor, testing the reattached bone by speaking.

“I thought you’d like it,” she said, guiding him towards the street by his arm.

“It’s a little hard to navigate at first, but you’ll learn,” Tía Carmen reassured as she too appreciated the scene. “We’ll show you around.”

As they walked home, Héctor marveled at the sights around him. The small family walked between skyscraper-like homes and businesses through ancient brick streets. They boarded a trolley on their journey, and the other riders sent Héctor pitying glances when they noticed the tiny skeleton in his arms. The young man noticed the looks, but was too preoccupied pressing his face into the trolley’s window to stare at the world below him in awe.

From the trolley they arrived near the summit of another tower. The buildings were in a little more disrepair than the ones in the city center had been, and the streets were more narrow and simple. The setting was similar to his neighborhood in Santa Cecilia, only more vertical. Mamá María and Tía Carmen stood and exited the trolley, Héctor following eagerly behind them. They walked for a few more blocks, Mamá María switching between lamenting her son’s early death to celebrating his arrival in the Land of the Dead.

“Ah, here we are,” she said at last, her crying ceasing finally as she pulled a set of keys from her apron pocket. “Home at last.”

Héctor inspected the house they stopped in front of. Like all the structures in the Land of the Dead, it was unusually tall and narrow. The house was a dulled yellow color reminiscent of what was, years ago, a vibrant sunny gold. There was a small balcony on the second floor that overlooked the street below. 

Mamá María unlocked the front door and led Héctor inside. The front room was dimly lit by the morning sunlight filtering through the windows. The faded green paint on the walls was beginning to peel in the corners of the ceiling. There was a small kitchen and a plain wood table, as well as two old rocking chairs tucked into the corner together. A steep staircase led to the floor above. 

“So, mijo, what do you think?” asked Mamá María, gesturing to their home. It was similar to the house the Rivera’s owned in Santa Cecilia, with sparse furniture and few decorations. In life, they were unable to afford frivolous things to make the space beautiful. Their family was what made their house a home.

“It’s wonderful, Mamá,” said Héctor honestly, walking further into the room. 

Mamá María and Tía Carmen smiled at the return of their boy’s positive attitude in their lives. The young man always made the best of whatever life, or death, in this case, threw at him.

However, the happy moment was short-lived when Mamá María could no longer smother her anxious curiosity.

“Mijo,” she said unsurely, placing a hand on Héctor’s shoulder. “I’m so glad that you’re here with us again, but I wish you could have lived a longer life.”

Héctor nodded in agreement, already suspecting the subject his Mamá was trying to breech. 

“How did it happen, Héctor? Why are you here with us so soon?” she asked, her eyes reflecting sympathy for her young son. 

The songwriter took a deep, collecting breath, and stared at the bundle in his arms. Almara seemed to be sleeping soundly, content to be reunited with her father. Héctor took a seat at the table, readjusting Almara’s blankets as he thought over his few options. 

He could spare himself the scorn of his family if he lied. They already believed that Almara was his and Imelda’s child, and there was nothing that led them to suspect otherwise. Their family would be content until Imelda joined them and found out about her husband’s other child. The fallout from the deception would be brutal, and Héctor hated the idea of putting his family through more pain than was necessary.

There was no easy solution, no way to escape this time. Lying would only delay the inevitable. He didn’t want his mamá and tía to hate him, but it was too late to take back what he did with Ernesto. He took a deep breath.

“A couple months ago, Ernesto and I left Santa Cecilia to perform in different towns,” he began slowly, avoiding eye contact with his family. He kept his gaze on innocent baby Almara. “We sometimes played in bars. I was drunk, and . . . .”

Héctor trailed off, scared to admit the truth.

“Will you both promise me something?” the young skeleton asked, glancing up at his mamá and his tía.

A concerned look passed between the two sisters. “Of course, mijo,” said Mamá María warmly. Hector felt sick to knowing her oblivious sympathy was unfounded.

“I made a horrible mistake,” he admitted somberly, his posture sunken and expression defeated. “I want you to know, before I tell you what happened, that I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I’ve done. All I ask is that you let me finish before you yell at me.”

“Oh, mijo, I could never-”

“Please, Mamá,” said Héctor, sending a pleading look to his mamá.

Confused and a little frightened by her son’s request, Mamá María nodded, accepting her son’s request. Tía Carmen watched her nephew’s spirits fall in apprehension.

Héctor took a moment to collect himself again before continuing, “We were drunk. When we got back to our hotel room, Ernesto, he and I- we . . . I was unfaithful to Imelda.”

Mamá María’s body stiffened in shock, wanting desperately to deny her son’s confession but holding her tongue per his request. Tía Carmen’s face began to contort into an ugly expression, outraged by the news.

“It went on for a couple more months before I started to get sick,” Héctor said once he saw that his family wouldn’t angrily interrupt him. “Last week, I had bad cramps and I started bleeding. Ernesto took me to a doctor . . . .”

The songwriter stared at the tiny sleeping body of his baby daughter. She was easily smaller than his palm. 

Mustering the courage to say aloud what happened was too difficult for the traumatized young man. Instead, Héctor shakily lifted up his white dress shirt with his free hand. The absence of his abdomen wasn’t surprising, but unsettling nonetheless. He gently unwrapped baby Almara from her blankets, lifting her into his hand before slowly bringing the tiny skeleton into his middle. 

Héctor felt his daughter begin to lift slowly off of his hands. Once he was sure Almara wouldn’t fall into his pelvis, he removed his hands from under her. She floated in place inside of him, settled between his ribcage and his pelvis. 

His mamá put her hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp. Behind her, Tía Carmen’s face fell as she realized what Héctor had gone through. A flood of guilt rushed through the bearded woman now that she knew her nephew shared her strange deformity, the curse of her life.

“I tried to go home after- after what happened,” said Héctor before his family could speak out on the shock. “I was walking to the train station last night, and I felt a pain in my stomach. It was so much like before. I passed out, and when I woke up, I was here.”

Héctor finished his story and looked fearfully at his family, afraid of their reaction. The two women stared at him with horrified, outraged expressions. A tense moment of silence passed among the sisters as they began to fully grasp the news. 

Tía Carmen took on a dangerous neutral face that Héctor recognized as anger. Gradually, Mamá María’s features grew dark, and her hands clenched into fists.

“I can’t believe you,” Mamá María seethed, glaring at her son. “How could you do this to Imelda? You promised you’d be loyal to her and her alone, that’s what marriage is, Héctor! How dare you- you cur!”

The songwriter bowed his head to the ground in shame, unable to look his mamá in the eyes. There was nothing he could say to defend his actions. Mamá María was right to be ashamed of him.  
Her insults tore viciously at his soul.

“Did you think it’d be like the mischief you two got into as children? That you’d get out of trouble with a swat on the wrist?” she went on, her volume rising with each word. “You left Imelda with a child to raise, just to cheat on her and die!”

“I didn’t mean to die,” said the young skeleton against his better judgement.

“Nobody means to die!” the angry woman scolded him harshly. “I raised you better than this, I taught you right from wrong. You knew you chose wrong when you slept with that man, and this is the price you paid.”

Mamá María scowled at her son one last time. Her eyes darted to Almara, floating peacefully inside his bones, and sent the tiny skeleton a look of distaste. In a quick flurry of movement, she turned on her heels and stormed out of the house, slamming the door on her way. Héctor watched her stomp past the window and down the street before she turned a corner and disappeared from view. 

Reluctantly, Héctor glanced to his aunt, his only family left in the room. She looked down on him with disapproval, but her anger was diluted by something else that the songwriter couldn’t place. 

At last, Tía Carmen broke the silence. “She’ll be back eventually,” she said, referring to her sister.

The bearded skeleton then walked toward Hector, who flinched away from the woman, half expecting her to strike him for his insolence. Instead, she continued on to the kitchen and bent to retrieve a skillet from a cabinet. Héctor watched her pull ingredients from the pantry and taste-test a bottle of red spice.

“What are you doing?” asked Héctor, still waiting for her to lash out at him like his mamá did.

“I’m making breakfast,” Tía Carmen answered gruffly, clearly irritated with her nephew. “Your Mamá is going to want something to eat when she gets back. You know how food makes her feel better.”

“Aren’t you angry with me too?” the young skeleton asked, reminding himself to ask his aunt how the dead could eat later, after some of the tension between them cooled. 

“I’m not angry with you, Héctor,” said the older woman, not bothering to turn to see the confused look on his face. “I’m furious with you.”

“Oh,” said Héctor awkwardly, realizing he was stupid for hoping otherwise. He was stupid for a lot of reasons.

Pressing his luck, he asked, “Then why aren’t you yelling at me?”

“Your Mamá will yell enough for the both of us,” Tía Carmen paused, staring into the kitchen sink as if it would provide her with some a better way to explain what she meant. “You made the  
dumbest, most idiotic decision of your life by sleeping with that man, and it cost you your life. ”

Héctor nodded solemnly to himself, already knowing what his aunt told him was true.

“Your little Almara wouldn’t have died if you had better sense,” she continued grimly. “She would never have been made, but she would never have died.”

The songwriter remained quiet, sensing his aunt had more to say and afraid he’d say something stupid again.

“When you and your Mamá first moved to Santa Cecilia to live with me,” she began unsurely, unable to decide if telling her nephew this story would be a good idea. “You were such a slender child,  
nothing like your Papá. You took after our side of the family.”

The mention of Héctor’s papá caught the young man’s attention. He hardly remembered the man after so many years passed without seeing him, but he vaguely recalled him being a tall, muscular man. While Héctor did inherit his papá’s height, Tía Carmen was right that he strongly resembled his Mamá’s family, the de Santiago’s.

“While you aren’t my own child, Héctor, you are still my family,” said the bearded woman, finally turning to face her nephew. A troubled expression fell over her face. “Back then, I worried that you would be different like I am.”

Héctor’s eyes widened at his aunt’s admission. 

“I know it’s too late warn you now,” she said with an undertone of guilt. “But when you married Imelda, I thought you would keep the promises you made to her. I thought nothing would happen if you could have a normal life with a good woman. I was wrong.”

Tía Carmen frowned for a moment, lost in her regrets, and turned her attention back to preparing their meal. Héctor stared at his aunt, his new knowledge settling into his understanding of the mistake he made.

“We couldn’t have known I was different. This isn’t your fault,” he comforted Tía Carmen in a quiet voice. It did no good to place any blame on his aunt, or to think how he would never have slept with Ernesto if he’d been diagnosed with his condition years ago. 

The older woman shook her head.

“I know it’s not,” she said. “I’m not the one who cheated on my wife.”

Héctor knew he deserved the cutting remark. Despite the what-ifs floating around in his head, he still let Ernesto do the things he did to him. The alcohol was no excuse either. He was married to Imelda, and had sex with Ernesto anyay.

All he could do now was accept his mamá’s and tía’s hatred toward him. Trying to escape the consequences would only prolong his and his family’s pain. Héctor knew that he would probably never be able to reconcile for what he did. Or, if he did, it would take years at least.

He had all of his afterlife to make amends, right?


	5. The Price We Paid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey so the chapter names? They make a little song. Not really appropriate for the chapter content as for the story content. Sorry this chapter is a little late; I'm switching internet providers at the moment and have unreliable access to wifi.  
> Thanks to all the people who kudos, comment, and bookmark!  
> To answer Tasmayi_Shree: Those questions will be answered, but a bit later on. Next chapter for sure.

Héctor and sat in painful silence as Tía Carmen prepared breakfast. Each second that passed renewed the young man’s guilt, an emotion he was becoming too familiar with. The adjustment to being dead was going to be difficult, especially when his only family despised him. 

Well, not all of his family, Héctor was reminded by the ghostly sensation of little Almara brushing lightly against his spine. She was too young to ever know the trouble her Papá caused. The thought lowered his mood even further.

Half an hour later, Mamá María returned. She opened the door a little more calmly than she had when she left, and ran upstairs without sparing her son a glance. She couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. Somehow, Héctor felt her inattention cut deeper than when she yelled at him. It meant that he was a problem that she would rather not face. She didn’t want to help him. Not yet, anyway. For the sake of his fragile peace of mind, Héctor allowed himself to hope that she would eventually tolerate him again. 

Forgiveness seemed to be an unreachable goal for the forsaken songwriter.

“If you want food, you can join us at the table,” Tía Carmen called to her sister upstairs as she began to set the table. “It’s your decision.”

Héctor watched his aunt begin to retrieve dishes from a cabinet. “Can I help, Tía Carmen?” he asked, wanting to assist. 

“No,” the bearded woman said curtly. “I think you’ve done enough today.”

The young man swallowed nervously. Tía Carmen finished preparing lunch, refusing to look at Héctor. She sat a plate and silverware in front of his spot at the table. 

The young man heard Mamá María’s footsteps descending the stairs, but kept his eyes from searching for her. He stared at the plate in front of him as his mother took her seat at the head of the table. He spared her a quick glance. She was still visibly upset with him. Her features were cold and narrowed. 

Tía Carmen brought a platter of huevos rancheros to the table and took her seat across from her sister. In practiced unison, the two women clasped their hands together and bowed their heads. Héctor quickly did the same once he realized they were praying under their breaths. He and Ernesto never prayed before their meals. 

In hindsight, it might have been a good idea. 

Tía Carmen then served the small family breakfast. The silence among them was nearly suffocating. Héctor couldn’t stand it any longer.

“So, ah,” he began awkwardly. “Why do we need to eat if we’re dead?”

Neither woman replied for a moment, ignoring the disgraced young man. Héctor pulled on the collar of his shirt. 

“This place runs on memories,” said Mamá María without looking at her son. She took a bite of eggs and took her time to chew and swallow. “Food is a habit from life that most prefer not to forget. We don’t need food, but we still want it.”

“Ah,” said Héctor. The answer was more straightforward than he thought it would be. He watched in awed confusion when his Mamá took another bite of food and saw it somehow disappear without dropping through her skeletal jaw. The best explanation for that was also simple: magic.

“We also don’t need clothes or houses or blankets. We can’t die from exposure or sickness,” she continued, hardly concealing the lingering distaste she felt towards Héctor. “But since we want clothes, clothes are made and sold. Even in death, you can’t escape the economy.”

Tía Carmen snickered at the comment. Héctor didn’t understand what was funny.

“That means that while you live under my roof, Héctor,” said Mamá María with a hint of venom. “You have to provide for the household.”

The songwriter nodded immediately, grateful that his Mamá was no longer ignoring him. He was glad to do anything to make up for the mistakes he’d made in life.

“Tomorrow I’ll show you to where you can find work,” said Tía Carmen to her nephew. “The Land of the Dead always needs laborers.”

She gestured out the window to the view overlooking the city. Cranes topped every tower of buildings, constructing homes for the newly deceased as quickly as they could. 

“I could go out today, if you’d like,” Héctor offered, overly eager to please his dead family after everything he did to hurt his living one. 

“No,” said Tía Carmen. “You aren’t fit to work now.”

“What do you mean? I’m as fit as-”

“- An ox?” his Mamá finished for him. “You’re exhausted, and you’re still in your charro suit. The only place you’re going is up to bed.”

Héctor felt as if he’d travelled back to his childhood. It had been years since he’d been told to go to sleep. A flame of annoyance flared through his mind, but he brushed it aside. It wasn’t his place to argue over something so trivial. 

Instead of retorting stupidly, Héctor took a bite of eggs. They tasted just the same as they had in life. Tía Carmen’s cooking was amazing as always.

“What do you do for work, then?” asked the young songwriter to his family.

“Luckily, the same as we did in life,” Tía Carmen said. “Your Mamá and I still work for the Gomez family. They were gracious enough to give us jobs when we died.”

In life, Tía Carmen and Mamá María worked for one of Santa Cecilia’s more affluent families. The Gomez’s owned a large tract of land on the southside of the town. Señora Gomez unfortunately passed in childbirth long before Héctor came to live with his aunt. None of the Gomez men could (or wanted to) cook or clean, so they hired the bearded woman and her sister. They were mean-spirited people. Tía Carmen was thick-skinned enough to withstand them when no one else would.

The mentions of the Gomez’s left a sour expression on Héctor’s face. 

“They were terrible to you,” he said bitterly.

“They still are, but they pay us a reasonable wage, all things considering,” his bearded aunt said, picking at her breakfast with her fork idly. “That’s enough for me to stay with them.”

“It’s hard to live here without a family,” added Mamá María. “Without a family, you have few connections. Connections are everything in the Land of the Dead.”

Héctor thought for a moment before asking, “What about your Papá? Couldn’t he help us?”

“That man doesn’t care about us. Couldn’t be bothered with us in life or death” said Héctor’s Mamá coldly, her eyes narrowed in hatred. 

“Then what about . . .” the young skeleton paused, suspecting he was about to breach a sore subject. “What about Papá’s family?”

“Absolutely not!” Mamá María slammed her fists on the table, making the silverware jump. “I refuse to go back to the Rivera’s.”

Héctor stilled. A dangerous frustration was bubbling inside of him. In life, he’d tried to ask his Mamá about his Papá. About why they left. She never answered him, always changing the subject or telling him she was too tired to have the conversation. However, Héctor’s submissive attitude was wearing thin after the day he’d had. 

The songwriter’s brow furrowed. He knew he would upset his Mamá if he spoke any more, but his patience was draining away.

“I’m a Rivera,” he said, emboldened by long-suppressed anger and frustration. 

His Mamá sent him a poisonous glare. Before she could begin to scold him, Tía Carmen’s chair screeched against the floor as she suddenly rose to her feet.

“You are a de Santiago in every way except in name, Héctor,” she said sternly as she looked down upon her nephew. “You were raised by de Santiago’s, not Rivera’s. You are wanted by de Santiago’s, not Rivera’s. They aren’t your family. Not anymore.”

Héctor felt his anger build. “Why don’t they want me?” he asked darkly, his glare challenging his aunt to answer the question they avoided for years.

Tía Carmen’s glare faltered. A familiar flash of guilt crossed her face. A glance to his Mamá confirmed that she shared her sister’s expression. Héctor began to suspect the reason why they left all those years ago.

“They thought I would be like you,” he said, referring to his bearded aunt.

The silence from his family was the only confirmation he needed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, a confused sense of betrayal settling into his soul. They suspected he was different the whole time. If he’d known, he never would have slept with Ernesto. 

Héctor had to remind himself that he shouldn’t have done so in the first place, regardless of whether he knew of his birth defect or not. It was still his fault he cheated on Imelda.

“I didn’t want you to know,” said Mamá María after a moment’s hesitance, unsure if she really wanted to tell her son the truth. “I wanted to spare you the pain.”

“A lot of good that did me,” Héctor spat, regretting his comment the second he spoke. Mamá María’s breath hitched at the retort, and her face contorted into anger again.

“Don’t you dare blame me,” his Mamá hissed, her glare sharp enough to kill. “I refused to let that man ostracise you, his own son. He couldn’t hurt us in Santa Cecilia. I took you away from them to protect you.” 

The songwriter glared back at his Mamá, a short lifetime of quiet, hidden frustration towards the woman resurfacing. This was a conversation they should have had years ago, not when his condition finally became an issue. 

“Besides, he’s still alive,” said Tía Carmen, breaking some of the tension between her sister and her nephew. “We had a talk with the Rivera’s when we first came here. They said that it’s his decision to let you and your Mamá back into the family. You can’t be a Rivera again at least until he dies.”

The songwriter considered his aunt’s words. The deceased Rivera’s didn’t want him, but that was just as well, he thought. Hopefully, most of the family he’d known as a child were still alive. Perhaps when they died, he could try to contact them again.

Héctor looked down at his half-eaten plate of eggs. Silently, he resumed eating his breakfast. There was nothing more he wanted to say to his family. There was too much racing through his mind. He needed time to come to terms with it all.

Thankfully, Mamá María dropped the subject. The three are the rest of their breakfast without another word. The tension was thick enough to be cut with knife, but a knife no one wanted to wield. They were all tired from fighting and the sun was still low in the sky. 

The sun filtering stronger through the windows reminded Héctor of how tired he actually was. The last time he slept was two nights ago, if the young man excluded when he passed out from the pains in his stomach. Inspecting his skeletal hands that gripped his fork, Héctor wouldn’t consider the moments before his death as rest. 

Héctor finished his food, cleared his plate, and headed towards the stairs.

“You can sleep in my bed,” Tía Carmen offered before he could escape upstairs. 

Héctor sent a meaningful look to his aunt. “Thank you,” he said sincerely before climbing the steep steps.

Once he reached the landing, the young man took a moment to glance over the room. It was simple like downstairs had been. There were two twin beds on either wall and a large dresser that his Mamá and aunt probably shared. 

However, unlike downstairs, there were a few decorations. A couple framed pictures hung on the wall. Inspecting them closer, Héctor was surprised to find that they were photos of him, Imelda, and Coco. There was even a messy drawing that Coco had drawn last Dia de Muertos. 

What they put on the offense really did make it to their dead relatives, Héctor realized. The thought of receiving some offerings of his own, and especially of seeing his family, on next Dia de los Muertos gave him a small feeling of much-needed hope. 

Héctor plopped down on the neater made bed he assumed was Tía Carmen’s, keeping his gaze locked on the photo of Imelda and Coco. His wife looked so serious in the picture that the songwriter couldn’t help but chuckle softly. 

He laid on the bed. Dios, he missed his family. If he thought four months were too long to be apart, then however long it would be till they passed on would be like an eternity. At least, he hoped it would be an eternity. It would be worse if they came here too soon. 

What would they do without him? Imelda was resourceful, Héctor knew she would find a way. But she shouldn’t have to. He should be there to provide for them. His chance to have a happy life with his wife and daughter was lost. He forfeited his dream. It was all his fault. 

Héctor drifted into a dreamless sleep worrying about his small living family. 

. . .

A gentle nudging against his shoulder roused Héctor awake. 

“Imelda?” he mumbled, blurry-eyes and confused. 

“No.”

Héctor opened his eyes and saw his burly, skeletal aunt standing over him. He sat up quickly, his memories of yesterday rushing back to him. 

“I found you some clothes for today,” said Tía Carmen, placing a folded pair pants and a stained white button-down shirt on the end of the bed.

It took Héctor a moment to remember why he needed clothes. He needed to find work, and he was still wearing his pink charro suit. Not the best outfit for construction work. 

“Thank you,” he said as he slipped off his charro jacket. 

His aunt nodded, and then added, “Try not to rip them just yet.”

“I’ll try,” Héctor said. The banter between them was familiar. He missed talking to Tía Carmen the years after her death. Despite the tense atmosphere, Héctor was glad to be with his deceased family again. If only they felt the same, he thought.

The bearded woman went down the stairs and left Héctor to change. He slipped off his charro jacket and undid the buttons on his shirt, revealing the pearly white bones underneath. Seeing his own exposed ribs was surreal. 

Little Almara still floated gently in his abdominal cavity, content to be with her father. She appeared to be asleep.

Héctor knew he loved his daughter. As strange as her existence was and as mixed as his feelings were towards her, he knew he loved her. Knowing that she would never live like she deserved to hung heavy in his heart. His guilt would plague him forever. 

Almara should have had the chance to live. Her death was his fault, whether directly or indirectly. The tour was physically and emotionally exhausting. Performing took nearly all of the little energy the songwriter could muster. Ernesto was rough with him. 

If he had known about her before the miscarriage, could he have prevented her death? Héctor was never particularly healthy even before the tour. He would never know if his body could have even carried her to term. Almara’s death may have been inevitable either way. 

Héctor quickly slipped on his new shirt. Seeing the infant skeleton inside of him brought the ache of her loss to the forefront of his troubled mind.  
Once he finished dressing, he followed his aunt downstairs. The faint light of dawn streamed through the window. Before Héctor had the chance to be confused by the time of day, his aunt spoke.

“You slept for nearly twenty-four hours,” said Tía Carmen, making herself and her nephew cups of coffee.

“I must’ve been tired,” Héctor took the steaming cup from the countertop and took a careful sip. The warm drink began to lift his spirits, if only a little bit.

“Dying will do that to a person,” his aunt said with a thin smile. 

The songwriter snorted at the dark humor and took another sip of his coffee.

“I’ll show you to some work on the way to the Gomez’s,” his aunt went on. 

At the mention of the wealthy family, Héctor asked, “Where’s Mamá? Doesn’t she work there too?”

Tía Carmen paused. “She went on ahead of me,” she said, staring into her mug.

Héctor nodded, understanding that Mamá María didn’t was avoiding him. He didn’t want to see her now either. Yesterday’s heated conversation was still fresh on his mind.

The two soon finished their coffee and walked to work. The Gomez’s villa was about forty minutes away, Tía Carmen told him. They stopped at the first construction site they found. It appeared they were building an addition to a large, official looking tower that looked frighteningly unstable.

“Do you remember how to get home?” asked Tía Carmen.

Héctor swallowed, a spike of nervousness shooting through him. “I do,” he said quietly.

“Then I’ll see you tonight,” said his aunt, already going on her way. “Good luck, sobrino.”

Sobrino. It was the first time his aunt had referred to him as such since he told her the unfortunate story of his death. Héctor hoped it was a sign she was willing to forgive him some day.

Héctor sent her a parting wave as he watched her round the corner and disappear, leaving him to fend for himself. The situation was reminiscent of when Tía Carmen or Mamá María would sometimes show him to work when he was younger and didn’t know the way home. Being a newcomer was like being a child, he supposed. Neither knowing the ways of the world yet.

Taking a deep, calming breath, the young man collected himself and marched into the job site. The land was covered with lumber and machinery, and hulking skeletons carried wood and tools to and fro. Almost all of the men were shirtless except for one. He was carrying a clipboard and barked orders at the laborers. 

“Excuse me?” Héctor approached the other skeleton, catching his attention. “Are you hiring?”

The man took a moment to process what Héctor said. His eyes scrutinized the songwriter’s tall, lanky skeleton. 

“I’m not so sure,” the boss said at last, finally looking Héctor in the eye. “Can you lift?”

“I can lift,” lied Héctor. He could only do his best, but his best wasn’t quite what the other laborers were doing. 

The man sent him an incredulous look. Héctor smiled nervously. 

The boss sighed. “See that guy with the red suspenders?” he pointed to an especially bulky skeleton with bright blue eye-markings. “Do whatever he says.”

“Thank you, Señor, thank you!” yelled Héctor, already running to join the other laborers. 

Hours passed. The work was hard, but Héctor was willing to do whatever it took to prove himself. His supervisor with the red suspenders and blue eye-marks, Señor Rodriguez, could see that the songwriter was trying. However, trying wasn’t cutting it. Héctor had no strength compared to the other men. He couldn’t keep up with the fast past they set.

After four hours of watching the young man struggle, Señor Rodriguez stopped him. 

“Señor Rivera,” he called to the younger man, who ran over to him. 

Señor Rodriguez pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and spilled them into Héctor’s hands. 

“This is for the last couple of hours, but,” he said, “this is all you’re getting. We have deadline to meet, and we can’t afford to pity slow-pokes.”

The songwriter counted his meager earnings and shook his head, despair building in his chest.

“Please, isn’t there anything else I can do?” he begged, sending pleading eyes to the bulkier skeleton. 

Señor Rodriguez gave Héctor a familiar pitying look that the young man was starting to get tired off. “Sorry, muchacho. You just aren’t strong enough,” he said.

With that, the larger skeleton turned from Héctor and returned to directing the other laborers. Héctor watched them operate for a moment, lifting lumber and drilling and hammering. They were a machine by themselves, and he had been a loose cog.

Numbly, Héctor left the construction site and slipped his coins into his pant’s pocket. He’d earned almost nothing and proved to be useless at building. What would he do? What else could he do? If he had his guitar, Héctor could try to play on the streets for money like he and Ernesto used to. Unfortunately, the beautiful instrument was in the Land of the Living, and Dia de Muertos was eleven months away. He’d have to find another guitar if he wanted to play.

Buying a new guitar was out of the question. Héctor would need to find more work first, and even then, he was making money for the household. His own wants had to be put aside. Waiting to retrieve his own on the next Dia de Muertos was his best option. That was, if Ernesto would return the guitar to Imelda, and if Imelda would put in on the ofrenda as an offering. 

There were too many what-if’s for Héctor’s liking. 

Letting his frustration vent a bit, the young skeleton kicked a pebble on the path and watched it fly in front of him. To his mortification, it hit the back of someone walking ahead of him. The skeleton lady hissed when the pebble struck her skull.

“Ay! Watch it!” she yelled as she swung around to see what hit her. When she caught sight of Héctor’s guilty face, her expression changed.

Héctor thought she would be upset. Instead, the skeleton woman’s features softened when she recognized the young man.

“Señor Rivera!” said the skeleton lady, smiling brightly at Héctor. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

See him again? Héctor tried to remember how he knew the familiar woman. She wore a simple white dress, and her white-streaked dark hair was kept in a neat bun. Suddenly, he recognized her pink petal-like facial-markings.

“Señora Martínez?” he said, hoping he remembered her name correctly.

“Sí!” she said and walked over to him. “So how are you settling in? I know the city can be confusing, especially for newcomers. You’ll be able to find your way around in no time at all.”

“Gracias, Señora,” said Héctor, glad to have a positive interaction with someone. “I’m settling in . . . settling in as best I can be.”

The nurse’s happy expression faltered when she caught the underlying sorrow in Héctor’s tone.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. The younger skeleton was caught off-guard by her immediate concern, and was quick to try to dispel it.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s just that, uh,” Héctor struggled to come up with a cover-story. 

The last week was the worst of the worst in his life- afterlife, Héctor thought. The unexpected death of his unborn daughter weighed heavy on his soul, his own death even more so. He left Imelda to raise Coco alone. His own mother refused to look at him. 

“ . . . it’s been a rough week,” the songwriter admitted, abandoning his pleasant front. Mustering the energy to pretend to be fine for the nurse was too much for the exhausted young man.

Señora Martínez frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said sincerely. After a moment of thought, she continued, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Héctor stared at the other skeleton, surprised by her offer. 

“You really don’t need to-”

“I’m a nurse, Señor Rivera,” she interrupted before Héctor could decline. “Helping people is my life’s work.”

She came closer to him, gazing into his eyes with genuine sympathy. Héctor had to stop himself from stepping away.

“Please, Señor Rivera. Is there anything I can do to help?” she repeated and waited for his response.

The songwriter looked off to the side, weighing his options. Señora Martínez was a complete stranger. There was no guarantee that she was being honest, but by her tone, Héctor believed she was. Besides, what other choice did he have? He didn’t have the privilege of choice- he needed to make more than a couple of coins by the day’s end or risk the wrath of his mother. She was in no mood to be disappointed.

Héctor sighed. “ . . . I need to find work,” he said slowly, meeting Señora Martínez’s eyes.

“Work? You only arrived yesterday,” said the nurse in surprise.

“My Mamá, she told me to find a job today,” Héctor said. “I tried to work for those builders,” he gestured to the construction site down the street, “but they don’t want me.”

The skeleton lady’s brow furrowed, upset over the young man’s situation. 

“Would any job do?” she asked, and idea already forming in her mind.

“Sí, anything.”

“Then . . .” Señora Martínez paused to think. “Are you good with babies?”

“Babies?” repeated Héctor, confused by the question. It was impossible for children to be born in the Land of the Dead. “I mean, I think I am. I did alright with my daughter Coco.”

An excited smile grew on the nurse’s face. “Then would you be willing to be a babysitter at la Catrina’s?”

“What?” the young man said, even more confused than before. 

“La Hospital de la Catrina,” the woman explained. “That’s where I work. We always need an extra helping hand in Women’s Health. We care for all of the lost babies of the Land of the Dead- like your little daughter.”

“Oh,” said Héctor. He hadn’t thought of where Almara was before he arrived.

“It’s tiring work, but it’s the most rewarding job I’ve ever had.” said Señora Martínez. “There’s nothing like reuniting a parent with their child.”

Héctor thought of yesterday when the nurse before him gave him his tiny daughter. The relief he felt upon seeing Almara, feeling her wiggle in her blankets, had been nearly overwhelming. He may not have been able to provide for her in life, but he would love and protect her in death. With some sense he didn’t know he had, the young man could feel Almara floating within him, despite her not touching his bones. 

She was safe, and they were together again. That knowledge alone was priceless. He could help other parents achieve the same reassurance of knowing their child was alright.

“I’d love to be a babysitter,” Héctor accepted happily, ecstatic to have found a job that was worth more than just its pay. “When can I start?”

Señora Martínez was taken by surprise by his eagerness. However, a wide smile soon spread across her features

“You can start now, if you’d like,” she said excitedly and began to lead Héctor away from the construction site. “I was just on my way to start my shift when I ran into you. You’re lucky to have caught me.”

“Lucky,” the songwriter repeated under his breath, a hesitant smile growing on his face. It was the first time in a long time he could consider himself lucky.

He knew his luck could run out any minute, especially with how the past week had went. But for now, Héctor allowed himself to bask in the sunny feeling of believing that things were about to take a turn for the better.


	6. A Lifetime of Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha hey! Just figured out that I accidentally placed chapter 7 where chapter 1 should be. That’s fixed now I think! Sorry about that y’all, ma’ams and sir’s, señoras y señores.

The sight of his new charges made Héctor feel sick to his stomach, despite him no longer having one.

The walk to the Hospital de la Catrina only took a few minutes. Señora Martínez led him through the halls of the facility to the Women’s Health wing. Like in the Land of the Living, the doctors and nurses in women’s health dealt with new babies. However, now that Héctor saw the expanse of patients before him, it seemed that Women’s Health in the Land of the Dead dealt with only babies.  
Hundreds of tiny cots filled the space. Each one held the skeleton of a baby. Attendants, or babysitters as Señora Martínez called them, flitted from infant to infant to calm their crying. There were smaller ones who were silent, just like his Almara. Somehow the quiet babies were more upsetting to the songwriter than the ones who made noise.

“There’s so many of them,” he said at last. “Where are their parents?”

Señora Martínez shook her head. “Still alive, hopefully,” she said quietly.

The young man turned to her. “Hopefully?” he repeated.

The nurse paused. She frowned and glanced up at Héctor, sending him a troubled look. 

“Sometimes, when parents who lost babies come to the Land of the Dead, they never try to find them,” she explained slowly, a smidge of resentment present in her voice. “Most people see them as bad memories. Memories they’d rather forget.”

Unfortunately, Héctor understood exactly what the nurse told him. His miscarriage, his daughter’s premature death, was the worst thing he’d ever experienced. However, he refused to abandon Almara because of unfortunate circumstances. She was his child, and his responsibility. It didn’t matter that they were both dead. She still depended on him.

“That’s horrible,” he said as he looked over the rows of cots again. His little Almara was only here for a week. How long had the other babies been in this room, separated from their parents? 

“It is what it is,” said Señora Martínez, approaching the cot closest to them. 

She reached inside and gathered a fussing baby skeleton in her arms. The little thing had pretty red dots surrounding their eyes, which were shut tight as they screamed. Tears flowed down their cheekbones.

The skeleton lady rocked and shushed the baby for a moment, and Héctor watched as they began to settle down. Soon enough, they fell asleep in Señora Martínez’s arms. She smiled sadly at the tiny skeleton she held, brushing their skull with her thumb. 

“It’s a babysitter’s responsibility to make the little ones as comfortable as possible,” she said to Héctor. “They need to be held and played with and cared for, just like living babies.”

The songwriter nodded. “I can do that,” he said softly, not wanting to be too loud around the sleeping infants. 

Señora Martínez sent him a small, grateful smile before her attention was torn away by a sudden yell across the room.

Following her gase, Héctor saw an attendant bent over a cot, appearing extremely distressed. She picked up a bundle of blankets in her arms that was emitting a strange orange glow. The glow enveloped a small skeleton, who was silent and still. Another attendant rushed to her aid, blocking the bundle from Héctor’s view. He could hear the first attendant begin to weep.

“What’s happening?” he asked, concern heavy in his voice as dread rushed over him.

The nurse stared at the scene for a moment longer before turning away, her eyes downcast. She carefully adjusted the blankets surrounding the sleeping baby she held in her arms.

“It’s the final death,” she nearly whispered, as if the phrase itself was a curse. “I’m sorry you had to witness it so soon.”

“What is it?” Héctor asked. It couldn’t be something good, he knew that much.

The skeleton woman thought over the best way to explain before she said, “The Land of the Dead runs on memories. We exist here because our stories are remembered by the living who knew us and life. When they share our stories, they keep our memory alive. They keep us alive.”

“But when no one remembers you . . .” she trailed off and sent a meaningful look to the two upset attendants. The young man noticed the bundle of blankets was now empty. The orange glow was gone. “Then you disappear.”

Héctor stared at Señora Martínez in shock as the new knowledge settled heavy in his heart. He watched the two attendants comfort each other with a new understanding. They were grieving. 

“Who could forget their child?” Héctor asked in dismayed astonishment. 

“It may not be that their parents forgot them,” the nurse explained gravely. “It’s more likely that everyone who remembered them in the Land of the Living has now passed on. That’s usually the cause of the final death. It happens to everyone eventually.”

Héctor shook his head, wanting to deny the unfortunate truth. “But what happens after the- the final death? A second Land of the Dead?” he asked.

The nurse shook her head. “No one knows,” she admitted darkly.

Denial flashed through Héctor’s mind before giving way to indignation. The songwriter’s first death had been bad enough, and now that he knew he would have to face death again, an angered sense of justice bubbled in his mind.

“That’s not fair-” the feeling of something brushing against his spine stopped Héctor before he could continue. 

Placing a hand over his midsection, the young man remembered that the odd sensation was only little Almara. A quick wave of relief washed over him before a terrible realization occurred to him.

He thought back to the day she was born. The medical center’s doctor learned of Almara when he removed her dead body from Héctor. Later that day, the distressed songwriter told Ernesto, her father, of his unborn daughter’s death. The other musician had seen her body, had smelled her decaying under Héctor’s bed. 

Only two living people remembered Almara. 

“I’m afraid that’s life for you. Or death, rather,” said Señora Martínez, not yet noticing the growing panicked expression on the young man’s face.

His breath became quicker and shallower. “My- my daughter,” he said. His hands gripped the fabric of his shirt over where his stomach used to be. Over where Almara now laid. 

The nurse raised a brow in confusion.

Héctor tried to swallow the building knot in his throat. “My daughter. Only the doctor and my- my friend know about her.”

Señora Martínez’s eyes widened, and her face fell as she shared his anguish.

“What about your wife?” she asked him, not realizing that it should have been impossible for the young man’s wife not to know about the miscarriage, if it was indeed their child. Her sense was blinded by her hope that more living people remembered the poor man’s daughter.

Héctor’s thoughts raced to a dark place in his mind. He couldn’t go through the death of his unborn daughter, not again. The traumatic memories of his unexpected miscarriage flashed through him, along with the morbid scene of the glowing orange baby-blankets. One day, the same orange glow would seep through the fabric of his shirt. Héctor was bound to outlive Almara, even in death.

Mustering the courage to say that no, his wife never knew of his little daughter, was too painful for the distraught young man to explain. If he cared less about Almara, his shame would have stopped him from wanting to tell Señora Martínez the truth. Yet, despite of the terrible circumstances surrounding her creation, he loved his daughter. Coping with the burden of her inevitable death was something he couldn’t bear to do alone. 

His family disliked Almara. Mamá María and Tía Carmen were stern realists. He didn’t need another scolding or another person telling him what he already knew. More than anything, he needed compassion. The only person who offered him any real sympathy in the last two days was Señora Martínez.

Making his decision, Héctor slowly pulled up the bottom hem of his shirt with shaking hands. He watched the nurse’s expression change from confusion to shock when she saw his baby daughter floating inside of him, proof of their unnatural relationship.

“Oh my . . .” she said, staring at Almara for a moment longer before meeting Héctor’s scared eyes. 

It was then that she noticed just how young Héctor looked. Before her stood a terrified young man who had been given the news that he would have to relive the death of his child. He was frightened and alone, without a family who would support him. Señora Martínez was all too familiar with the situation. She dedicated her afterlife to caring for children who felt exactly the same.

Finally, the nurse asked, “How is she doing?”

“How- what?” stammered the songwriter, thrown by the question. Despite his hopes, he still expected her to be disturbed by the revelation. 

“How is she doing?” she repeated. “I mean, is she staying in place? Does she fall into your pelvis?”

“I- no, she just floats there,” said Héctor, processing the nurse’s reaction. It wasn’t bad, and that was good. It was great.

Señora Martínez gave Héctor a comforting smile that sent a wave of relief over him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the nurse said earnestly. “It seems she’s adjusting well.”

“Yeah, she is,” said the young man. He allowed his hand to lightly caress the tiny skeleton inside of him. She was safe, and she was alright. 

“Are you still interested in being a babysitter?” Señora Martínez asked tentatively, thinking that Héctor may have been dissuaded from taking the job now that he knew the details. It was, admittedly, depressing work. 

The young man thought for a moment. The Hospital de la Catrina was a sad place. He would be reminded of his trauma everyday he came into work. However, Señora Martínez would be there with him, be there to help him when being an attendant became hard handle. She would be a kindly ear for him, and that’s what Héctor needed, more than anything. He needed a friend.

“Yes,” Héctor made his decision. The work would be difficult, but he was good at taking care of children. It was a job he knew well from taking care of Coco.

Señora Martínez’s expression brightened. “Excellent!” she cheered, sending him a beaming smile. “How about I show you around?”

Over the next couple of hours, the nurse’s happy disposition lifted Héctor’s mood considerably. She took him on a tour of the Women’s Health wing and introduced him to all the attendants. They were all kind, pleasant people, and welcomed the young man warmly. Héctor noticed that there were very few men among the Women’s Health staff, and that he was the youngest attendant by far. Many of the attendants had streaks of gray and white in their hair. Hector felt a pang when he realized white hair was milestone he would never reach.

Purple and orange clouds blanketed the dusky sky when Señora Martínez showed him the way out of the hospital. The street was dotted with skeletons rushing home after work, eager to return to their families. Héctor wished he could feel the same.

“I’ll talk to the director and get you on the payroll,” said Señora Martínez as they came to a stop outside the hospital doors. 

She turned to Héctor and presented her hand to him. “I look forward to working with you, Señor Rivera.”

Héctor grinned and shook the nurse’s hand. Her bones were smooth under his own. 

“Just call me Héctor,” he said.

“Then you can call me Ramona.” the nurse returned the smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Come in around ten in the morning and ask for me at the desk. I’ll help you get started then, alright?”

“Yeah, that sounds good, and,” said Héctor, “Thank you again for this. For everything.” He gestured to his middle, referring to the week before his arrival when Señora Martínez cared for his daughter.

“I’m glad to do it,” she said, patting him on the shoulder supportingly. “Have a good night, Héctor.”

“You too, Señora- er, Ramona,” the young man stumbled over her name.

The kind nurse gave him one last smile before heading back into the hospital to finish her shift, leaving Héctor alone on the street.

For a moment, he watched the sun set over the city. The colors were breathtaking. Somewhere in the distance, the songwriter could hear music playing, its melody soft and sweet over the busy urban landscape. The scene was beautiful, and everything seemed perfect to the bright-eyed young man. Everything was alive. 

Unlike when Tía Carmen left him earlier that day, being alone didn’t bother Héctor then. The day was more than he could have hoped for. He had a job now, one that he could do well. He had 

Señora Ramona Martínez on his side, and all the attendants at the Hospital de la Catrina as well. They were good people. Working with them would be a blessing, one that he desperately needed, especially since his family resented him.

Héctor felt he deserved Mamá María and Tía Carmen’s coldness. He accepted it even. However, he now had an opportunity to escape their loathing, if only for a little while. The hospital would be his safe haven. 

The songwriter took a deep, calming breath, and began his walk home. He may never be able to forgive himself for what he did with Ernesto, but that was okay. One day, everything would be okay. It would take years, and all he could do in the meantime would be to carry on.

He’d worry about the future when it came.


	7. Until We're Nothing But Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check those archive warnings! This is the chapter they apply to.

Someone was panting. Héctor could feel their hot breaths against his left ear, deep and sensual. A low moan escaped their lips. Warm, soft lips grazed his neck. Their body was heavy and comfortable over his own. 

A contented, pleasured grown bubbled up from the songwriter’s throat like music. He hadn’t done something like this is forever. This was good. 

“Imelda?” he murmured, embracing the figure on top of him. Their skin was slick with sweat, and the muscles of their back were thick and defined. 

“No,” Ernesto breathed into his ear. A rush of panic ran down Héctor’s spine.

Immediately, the younger man began to struggle. He pushed against Ernesto’s shoulders with all his strength. The larger man hardly budged, and started to suck on Héctor’s neck. 

“Ernesto- Ernesto, get off,” Héctor begged, his heart racing. He shoved against his friend’s chest to no avail.

“I’m almost there . . . .” the older man drawled, ignoring the songwriter’s plea. 

Héctor felt Ernesto press against his opening. Desperately, he tried to kick the other man off of him, but he was too weak. He couldn’t stop this. He couldn’t do anything. Suddenly, Héctor was hyper-aware of his surroundings. They were in his bedroom in Santa Cecilia. They were in his and Imelda’s bed. The door was wide open.

To Héctor’s horror, two silhouettes stood in the threshold. Imelda’s face was dark and shadowed, her grimace cutting into her husband’s soul. A single tear ran down her pretty cheek. With her stood their precious Coco, peeking out from behind her mama’s skirt. Her innocent eyes stared into his own. 

“Get off! Get off of me!” the young man cried, flailing wildly under Ernesto. "Let me go! Please!”

The larger man only grunted in response as he slammed himself into his best friend. Héctor sobbed. It hurt, this wasn’t right. 

He turned to Imelda, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want this, I’m so sorry. Please mi amor, please, I’m so sorry-” he went on, pleading for his wife to forgive him.

Imelda remained quiet and still. Tears streamed from her furious eyes, but she didn’t cry. She only glared at her disloyal husband.

“You’re dead to this family,” she hissed, poison in her tone. 

The room began to spin and distort with the rhythm of Ernesto’s thrusts. The darkness enveloped the entangled pair, seeping into their skin and into their souls. The songwriter tried to scream for his wife, to beg for her forgiveness once more. Instead, gargled, ugly noises erupted from his throat. 

Coco’s tearful eyes were the last thing he saw before the dark blinded him. 

. . .

Héctor woke with a start. His chest rose with his rapid breaths, and his eyes darted wildly around his bedroom. He gripped the fabric of his scrubs over his middle. 

It took a moment for the young man to gather his bearings. Darkness surrounded him, but a stream of early morning sunlight filtered under the door. He was at home in the pantry his mamá sacrificed to be his bedroom. Only his bed fit in the space, and the walls touched either side of his thin mattress. Despite the fact that the pantry hadn’t held food in years, the smell of cumin still hung in the air, ingrained into the wood. 

The arrangement used to bother Hécto, but now it was safe and familiar. His initial claustrophobia faded away long ago. 

With a groan, Héctor flung away his blanket and crawled out of bed. He found the door knob with ease, and pushed his weight into the door to force it open. The wood was old and the hinges were sticky, but Héctor didn’t mind. Repairing it would be an unnecessary expense.

The kitchen was blinding compared to the dark pantry. Héctor blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. The space was filled with the sound of silverware clinking against metal.

Tía Carmen was already awake and preparing breakfast. “Buenos días, sobrino,” she said when she heard the pantry door slam open. 

“Morning, Tía,” he mumbled groggily as he found his way to the table and plopped into his chair. 

Tía Carmen glanced over her shoulder to her nephew. He yawned and rubbed at his tired eyes. 

“You need to get to bed earlier,” she said decidedly, pouring Héctor a cup of coffee. “You look terrible.”

“I just woke up,” he tried to defend himself, self-consciously fixing his messy hair.

“Well-rested people don’t look like death warmed over,” Tía Carmen said. She placed a steaming mug in front of Héctor and began to straighten his hair for him. 

The songwriter chuckled lightly. “But I’m already dead,” he said. 

Tía Carmen grinned at the comment. “No excuses,” his aunt reprimanded before returning to the stove-top. “You work too hard.”

“No I don’t,” he dismissed and took a sip of his coffee. A caffeinated warmth spread over his bones, and he began to wake up properly.

Tía Carmen sent her nephew an incredulous look. “You came home at midnight yesterday. Your shift ended at ten o’clock. Two hours of overtime is ridiculous.”

Héctor sighed and stared into his mug. “Evita’s son-in-law arrived last night, so I covered her shift for her. Is that so bad?”

“No, it’s not,” said the bearded skeleton. “But overtime like this every week? That’s not good for you, sobrino.”

The young man bristled. “I get paid extra,” he argued. “I didn’t think you’d complain about more money.”

“We don’t need the money anymore, you know that,” she said. “You’re running yourself ragged for no reason.”

“I have a reason-”

“Héctor,” Tía Carmen stopped him before he could make a lame excuse. “Can’t you take a day off? They’d understand if you needed a break.”

“No,” he said immediately. 

“Sobrino-”

“I’m not taking a day off, especially not today,” the young man said with more force, quieting his aunt. “The banquet is today.”

Every year, the Hospital de la Catrina threw a party to celebrate the Hospital’s achievements and its most exceptional employees. It was a formal event, a bit too stiff for Héctor’s liking, but he enjoyed going. The banquet was the one time of the year when all of the Women’s Health staff could meet without being separated by shifts or vacation days. 

“It starts in the afternoon, I know,” his aunt said. “Just . . . .” Tía Carmen sighed, “Just promise me you’ll take a break soon. Your Mamá and I almost never see you anymore.”

“I live with you-“

“Héctor.”

The songwriter stopped. Finally, he nodded, agreeing to take a day off.

“Good,” his aunt acknowledged and returned to dicing a tomato. Héctor took another sip of coffee. A sudden realization had him slamming the mug back onto the table and darting back to his bedroom.

“Ay Dios mío, just what do you think you’re doing?” Tía Carmen yelled after him.

“Rehearsal!” he replied, running back into the kitchen with his guitar in hand. “I’ll see you later, adiós!”

“What? No! You aren’t going anywhere-”

“Tell Mamá I said hello!” said Héctor as he ran out the door and down the street. He had no time to waste. Darting between pedestrians and streetcars, the songwriter managed to hop onto a trolley before it left its station. Soon, he was high in the air, far away from his home.

The young man revelled in the sight of the city. Morning light danced across the bright-colored buildings. Early commuters with briefcases in hand hurried between doors and sidewalks. He must have seen the same view a thousand times, but the majesty of it all never got old.

From the trolley, he followed the familiar path to the Hospital de la Catrina. Workers carried baskets of paper flowers through its grand entrance, decorations for the night’s festivities. 

Héctor waved to them as he passed by and entered the building. He strolled to the Women’s Health wing, greeting old friendly faces. He made his way to his shared office and knocked on the door.

“Sí?” a cheery voice answered from inside.

Héctor cleared his throat loudly and sang, “Señoras, and Señores, buenos días, buenos tardes, buenos días, buenos tardes, Señoritas y Señores.”

He heard a light, airy giggle from the other side of the door.

“Come in,” they beckoned him.

With a wide smile, Héctor swung the door open and bounced into the room. 

There were two desks, one decorated with many picture frames and neat piles of paperwork, and the other a mess of files and notes.

The songwriter leaned his guitar against the messy desk.

“Hola Ramona,” he greeted his friend. She sat behind her desk, apparently reviewing a document before Héctor arrived.

“You’re awfully chipper,” she noted, giving him her full attention. “Are you ready for tonight?”

“Well, as much as I can be,” he said. “I brought my guitar. Do you have time to practice?”

“It’s so early,” the older nurse said. “I don’t think I’m really awake yet.”

“Oh, come on,” Héctor dismissed her concerns. “I woke up like, twenty minutes ago, and I’m ready to play.”

Ramona shook her head at her friend’s antics. “You’re a young man, Héctor. I don’t have as much energy as you.”

“I’m thirty-eight,” he said. “I’m almost forty, and you call that young?”

“Ay Dios mío, if you think forty is old, I’d hate to know what you thought of my age.”

Héctor laughed. He took a seat on the edge of his desk and picked up his guitar, idly picking a few notes. Ramona watched him warm up for a moment before humming gently along. 

The songwriter sent her a smile when he noticed her beginning to participate. “Are you ready now, Señora?” he teased.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” she said before rising from her seat. “And yes, I’m ready for a song or two.”

The happy rehearsal went on for much longer than either friend anticipated. Héctor was lost in the music, strumming and picking to his heart content as Ramona sang sweetly along. He admitted that she wasn’t the best, her voice not as deep or emotional as his Imelda’s, but she was still very good. Later that day, they would perform for the Hospital staff at the banquet together.

It was Ramona who pushed him to do it. This year Women’s Health was in charge of entertainment for the event, and everyone knew of Héctor’s musical ability. While he was wary at first, the songwriter eventually conceded to playing for them. If it would make his friends happy, then he would do it.

Hours passed, and soon the time came for the two to change into their outfits for the celebration. Against Ramona’s advice to buy a new tuxedo, Héctor wore his old pink charro suit for the occasion. It seemed fitting, especially since he was going to be performing with her. The nurse wore a matching salmon-colored dress, one she bought new especially for the banquet. Héctor loved seeing her excitement for their performance.

There was rarely anything to be excited for in their line of work, after all. Reunions, Hector learned within his first year as a babysitter, were few and far between. By the time a baby’s parents died, the chances that the living would remember the child’s life were slim. Or, if parents did come to claim their baby, it was difficult to identify exactly which one was theirs. The tiny skeletons never had the chance to develop any defining characteristics.

Héctor and his little Almara were some of the lucky ones.

Later that day, Ramona and Héctor met with the rest of Women’s Health and made their way to the banquet hall. They talked and laughed amongst one another throughout dinner and the first part of the celebration, the awards.

Trophies were given out to the most accomplished employees of the past year. They were the ones who treated the most patients, perfected a new medicine, or so forth. They were the best of people, and the Hospital de la Catrina was there home. 

Héctor clapped along with everyone else as doctor after doctor accepted their honors. Each gave a short speech expressing their gratitude, but were urged to cut their thanks every shorter by the end of the segment. There were still awards to be given, and it was nearly time for Héctor and Ramona’s performance.

Finally, the last award receiver crossed the stage. He worked with fractures, and was apparently so good at his job that his achievement merited a trophy. Héctor was hardly paying attention to the banquet anymore, anxious as he was to get on the stage and have his performance over with. However, something about the last doctor caught his attention.

There was nothing remarkable about the man, but there was something off about him that Héctor couldn’t place. The older skeleton’s spine was curved with age, and his hair was a soft gray. He wore spectacles and a nice, black suit. The songwriter didn’t know him; the doctor worked in another wing of the hospital. Yet, Héctor couldn’t shake the eerie sense of familiarity.

The old doctor reached the podium, and he cleared his throat into the microphone before beginning, “First of all, I’d like to thank the committee for allowing me the honor and the privilege of serving at this wonderful institution.”

His speech was just like all the others, but his voice was not. The quavering baritone struck Héctor with recognition so sudden and shocking that he pushed his chair away from the table and stumbled onto the floor.

“Héctor, what are you doing?” Ramona whispered to him, but he was already out of earshot. 

Héctor ran to the exit. His feet hitting the floor sent echoes through the empty hallways of the hospital. Soon he reached his office and slammed the door behind him. His breath came in quick gasps from running and oncoming panic.

He slid down the door to the floor and hugged his middle, mind racing at the implications of his discovery.

A few minutes of tense silence was broken by a knock on the door. 

“Héctor? What happened?" it was Ramona. She sounded worried. 

The young skeleton didn’t respond. The nurse knocked on the door again.

“Please, Héctor, let me in,” she said softly, comfortingly. 

“ . . . . Ramona?” he said finally, his tone off. She heard the sadness in his voice.

“Yes?” she waited for his answer. She’d been friends the man long enough to know when he needed time.

After a moment, the office door slowly swung open. Ramona’s eyes widened when she saw Héctor’s forlorn expression. Careful not to startle him, she gently pulled the songwriter into her arms and laid her skull against his ribcage.

“Oh, Héctor,” she said with a maternal tone. “What’s wrong, mijo?”

The young man stared down at the nurse, despair etched into his features. 

He paused, gathering the strength to speak. “That doctor, the one given that last award,” he nearly whispered. “He was the one who treated me when I had the miscarriage.”

Ramona tilted her head to meet the young man’s eyes. In them were tears threatening to spill over his cheeks.

“Héctor, I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling him closer to her. 

“Ernesto is the only person Almara has left,” he said, his voice sullen and lost.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Why would he tell anyone about her?” Héctor said. He shook his head in despair. “I’ve only ever told three people, and I only shared her memory because I had to.”

The nurse rubbed comforting circles into her friend’s shoulder blades, unable to reply. For once, there was nothing she could say to make Héctor feel better. No reassurance would help him through this. Only time could heal his pain. 

The two swayed together for a while, the skeleton lady allowing the distraught songwriter to sob quietly into her hair. It was all she could do. 

Eventually, another nurse found them. She told the pair that they convinced the mariachi band who played earlier that night to perform in their absence. Ramona thanked her and requested that she retrieve Héctor’s guitar from the banquet hall. When she returned, she gave the instrument to Ramona before wishing them a good night. 

The old nurse pulled away from Héctor and slowly presented him with his guitar. He took it after a moment, a blank, numb expression on his face that frightened Ramona. If her friend were crying or sobbing, she’d know how to help him. He was so tired, and seemed so much older than he actually was. For the first time in a long time, she was properly scared for her friend’s wellbeing.

Without another word, Ramona began to lead Héctor through the hospital and into the street. She helped him onto a trolley. They sat in stifling silence as they were carried over the Land of the Dead. Finally, the nurse led her friend to the front door of his house.

When Héctor made no move to enter, Ramona spoke, “Mijo, can you do me a favor? One little thing- it would mean the world to me.”

He turned to her, a quirked brow the only indication that he heard her.

The skeletal lady frowned, but continued, “Please, take tomorrow off, Héctor. You need rest.”

Héctor shook his head. The nurse sighed.

“Please, Héctor,” she begged. “Do it for me. It hurts me to see you push yourself like this. I’m worried about you.”

The young man glanced away from his friend. Ramona could see his brow furrow in thought. 

“ . . . . I will,” he finally conceded.  
The nurse sighed in relief, and she gave Hector one last hug. “Gracias,” she whispered to him. 

With that, Ramona released her friend and sent him a kind smile. Héctor struggled to return it. They said their goodbyes. He watched the old nurse walk away until she rounded a corner and was out of his sight. 

Héctor’s eyes returned to the front door for a moment before glancing to the guitar in his hand. In his stupor, he forgot to strap it on his back. The songwriter allowed his thoughts to race as he inspected his instrument. It was plain and wooden, nothing like the one he had in life. His old guitar was magnificent. The one in his hands felt like a cheap replacement to what he once had. 

An idea occurred to Héctor, prompting him to fling the door open. The kitchen was dark and empty. His family was already asleep. The young man hurriedly rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a knife. 

He flung his guitar onto the table, hardly noticing the uncomfortable, grating sound the strings made. A plan already formulating in his mind, the songwriter held the knife over the instrument. Then, quickly but carefully, he began to etch a jagged line into the wood. 

Hours passed as he defaced the guitar. White paint leftover from years ago became the base coat. More cuts and lines and swirls became familiar patterns. Throughout the process, he managed to find some ink. The dark liquid poured into the exposed grain like blood onto a bandage.

The morning light streamed through the windows when he finished his impromptu project. After completing the final touches, Héctor took a step back to admire his handiwork. 

It wasn’t like the guitar he had when he was alive. It was far from an exact replica. The customization was ugly and crude at best, but it was familiar, and it was his. That was all he wanted. 

Héctor placed an ink-stained hand over his middle. Just below the fabric, his little Almara floated peacefully inside him. She was alright for now. Ernesto was still young. And maybe, decades later, Héctor would come to terms with the inevitable. He would have to.

The lanky skeleton sat back in his chair. For now, he could live with himself. A single thought brought him some comfort before he passed out from exhaustion: There was no time like the present.


	8. I Wish I Could Forget

In the previous chapter . . . .

It wasn’t like the guitar he had when he was alive. It was far from an exact replica. The customization was ugly and crude at best, but it was familiar, and it was his. That was all he wanted. 

Héctor placed an ink-stained hand over his middle. Just below the fabric, his little Almara floated peacefully inside him. She was alright for now. Ernesto was still young. And maybe, decades later, Héctor would come to terms with the inevitable. He would have to.

The lanky skeleton sat back in his chair. For now, he could live with himself. A single thought brought him some comfort before he passed out from exhaustion: There was no time like the present.

. . .

1942

The present, he learned too soon, was fleeting. 

It happened while Héctor was at work. On the walk back to the main patient room after his break, he felt an overpowering sense of dread rush down his spine. The feeling was enough to make him stop in his tracks and stumble into the wall. He clutched his middle, a decades-old habit repeating in his moment of panic.

The songwriter called for help, and soon there was another nurse by his side. She was the one to notice the subtle orange glow beneath the fabric of his white attendant’s uniform. After so many years of working at the hospital, almost all of the Women’s Health wing knew of Héctor’s little daughter, and this nurse was no exception. Thinking quickly, she pulled Héctor into a close hug so that he wouldn’t look down and see the foreboding light. 

Despite her efforts, she couldn’t hide the gravity of the situation. Héctor knew what was happening, learned about the painful experience of losing a baby both from the Ramona’s teachings and his own short life. He sobbed quietly into the nurse’s shoulder, powerless to stop what was about to occur. 

Other nurses soon heard the commotion from the hall and realized what was happening. Someone fetched Ramona, who ran to comfort her friend. She hugged him deeply and whispered condolences to him, and tears streamed quietly down her skull. In solidarity with their coworker, the rest of the Women’s Health wing joined the embrace, attendants, nurses, and doctors alike huddling to protect the precious young man who’d come into their afterlives years before.

Minutes passed. Eventually, the staff of the Women’s Health wing returned to their jobs, all apologizing for the loss of Almara. Héctor stared at his middle while his supervisor told him to take the next few days off. He had nothing to say. 

What could be said about the final death of his own daughter? He witnessed the final death hundreds of times throughout his career, and almost became desensitized to it. Almost. A terrible ache of despair grew in his bones. His daughter was dead.

Héctor felt numb. Ramona watched her friend’s eyes become unfocused and glassy. She tried to ask him how he was feeling, but he refused to answer. He only stared at his shoes. 

. . .

The gentle brushing of the broom against the wooden floorboards was interrupted by frantic knocking on the front door. Mamá María glanced towards the window and leaned her broom against the wall. Whoever was knocking was standing too close to the door to be seen. 

The stranger knocked again, louder this time.

“Ay, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled, crossing the kitchen and opening the front door.

To her surprise, in front of her stood her son and his friend. Héctor leaned heavily against Ramona, his body limp and weak. His eyes were unfocused, and his head lolled to the side. The young man seemed almost unaware of himself, hollow and lifeless. 

Before Mamá María could ask what was wrong, Ramona was pulling Héctor into their home. He stumbled and jerked like a marinette. 

“Señora Rivera, could you get him a glass of water?” the nurse asked the other woman as she helped Héctor into a chair at the kitchen table. 

Mamá María rushed to do so, quickly grabbing a glass from the cabinet and placing it under the tap. Shakily, she presented the drink to her son, who barely noticed the gesture. 

“What happened to him?” she asked, reaching to caress her poor son’s skull. When Mamá María’s fingertips touched the smooth surface of Héctor’s cheekbones, he flinched away, and his pained eyes darted to his mother’s face. The woman retracted her hand immediately, dread settling into her soul.

Ramona was quiet for a moment, watching the mother and son with kind-hearted pity. Finally, she said, “Almara was forgotten.”

Mamá María stared blankly at the nurse, taking her time to process the news. She saw how Héctor held his head in his hands. His breath was shaky, and his eyes were shut tight in an attempt not to cry. 

“Is he alright?” asked Mamá María at last.

Ramona shook her head, “No.”

The corners of the other woman’s mouth twitched into a frown. 

“He’ll get better, but he needs time. He needs compassion. He’s . . . .” Ramona sighed. “I know you have your opinions about your granddaughter, Señora Rivera. I’ve heard it all from Héctor.”

Mamá María’s breath hitched, anger bubbling to the surface. Before she could retaliate, Romano continued, “Before I leave him with you, I need to know that you’ll put the past aside and care for him- really care for him through this. He needs sympathy. If you can’t do that- if you ignore him or hurt him . . . .”

A maternal fire rose in Ramona’s voice. “If you aren’t good to him, then he can live with me instead.”

“Excuse me?” Mamá María erupted. “You think I can’t care for my own son?”

The older woman took a threatening step towards the Rivera matriarch. “He deserves love, and if you can’t provide him that, then I will. I already do,” she said. “Héctor is one of my best friends. I would never let him go through this alone.”

“He won’t be alone,” said Mamá María, glaring at the older skeleton. “To even suggest that I would abandon my son because of this- this tragedy. I can’t believe- you have some nerve-” the taller woman broke off, fuming and huffing.

Seeing how quickly Héctor’s mamá came to his defense, Ramona began to feel a little better about leaving him with her. But only a little. She knew their relationship was shaky after Héctor died, and while she also knew they had improved, doubts continued to seep into her thoughts. Ramona hoped she was making the right decision to let the Rivera women help Héctor recover. His aunt was good to him, and his mamá could be too, if she tried. 

Ramona wanted to give the woman a chance to prove herself. “Fine," she said. "But if I even suspect that you aren’t being good to him, I will do what I have to.”

Mamá María’s glare intensified. “Get out of my house,” she seethed, pointing towards the front door. 

The nurse nodded, unashamed of having called out María Rivera in her own home. She took a few steps towards the exit before turning back to Héctor. “You’ll be okay,” she said to him. 

The young man couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes, lost in the turmoil of his own mind. Distantly, he heard Ramona leave the house and his mamá slam the door behind her. A familiar bony hand brought a glass of water to his lips, and he accepted the drink without much thought. He heard murmurs of reassurances and apologies as Mamá María helped him to his room, and as gently as she had when he was a child, helped him into bed. 

Héctor fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

. . . 

Weeks passed with no word from Héctor. Ramona visited his home every day, but Mamá María refused to let her see him. She said he didn’t want any visitors. The old nurse had trouble believing her friend’s mamá. 

Yet, it was true. Héctor hadn’t left his bed since he was laid there last month. Skeletons didn’t need to eat or drink, move or walk. So he stayed in bed. He felt nothing. He was nothing. There was nothing left to be alive for. And despite this poisonous line of thought, something even worse stirred inside him. 

The songwriter was on the edge of losing himself.

. . . 

 

Mamá María and Tía Carmen woke to a loud crash from the kitchen. The sisters raced out of bed and down the stairs, quickly finding the source of the noise in the kitchen.

Standing in the middle of the room was Héctor. Dark, red light fell ominously across his face from the streetlight outside the window. Exposed ribs seemed to glow in the dark. They were wrong without little Almara floating beneath them. His stance was unnervingly rigid, and his eyes were blown wide as he stared at the destroyed guitar in his hands. Splinters of the instrument littered the ground, white and black painted pieces of wood splayed on the floor like marigold petals. The body of the guitar was connected grotesquely to its neck by it strings. 

Héctor was done with pretending he had any claim to his own guitar anymore. People recognized De la Cruz’s guitar when they saw it. He’d been asked to play Ernesto’s songs, his songs, by his best friend’s fans countless times.

It wasn’t the songwriter’s guitar anymore, they weren’t his songs anymore. They were both cheap imitations of what they once were. He despised what his work had become, loathed what Ernesto done. For years, he tried to not let it bother him, but it annoyance had grown into hatred. His best friend corrupted everything Héctor once held dear. 

And the man wouldn’t answer for what he’d done. These past few weeks, Héctor stayed put, hoping that Ernesto would come. He never did. Maybe he never would. What he once wanted so badly- their reunion, Ernesto helping him through the death of their daughter- now meant nothing to him. 

But then again, what did they actually have together? Héctor never loved Ernesto, not like he loved Imelda. And, as confused as he knew Ernesto's feelings were towards Héctor, Ernesto loved him- but not as a lover. All they wanted from each other was friendship and pleasure, but that’s not all they were granted. They were given Almara, she was their daughter, and Ernesto hadn’t even come to ask what had become of her. 

Héctor hated him for that most of all. While the songwriter cared for her for decades, held her in his arms, carried her in his body, Ernesto partied and achieved his dreams. Héctor had his dream stolen by the miscarriage- he separated from his family in the Land of the Living. Coco would grow up without him, Imelda would raise her without him. Maybe she'd remarried and Coco called someone else papá. Héctor missed her first day of school, teaching her to play the guitar, her quinceañera. Coco was 24 years old now- he probably missed her own wedding. 

Héctor, in his forlorn, depressed state of mind, knew he meant nothing to the man he once called his friend. He stared at the destroyed guitar in his hands and made a decision. If Ernesto would choose to ignore what happened between them, if that’s how he coped with their shared mistake, then so be it. 

If he meant nothing to Ernesto, Ernesto meant nothing to him.

The next week, Hector gathered the courage to put on his scrubs and return to the Hospital de la Catrina. The staff seemed surprised to see him there, but welcomed him back. He went to the main hall, and took a moment to look over the hundreds of tiny cots before tending to a small, fussing skeleton. The routine was safe, it was familiar. Time and normalcy were his only solaces.


	9. Interlude

_ 1956 _

Elena squirmed in her seat, nervous energy bubbling through her body. She’d been waiting for her mama and sister for over an hour- how long could a doctor’s appointment take? A while, she thought bitterly. Then again, the four Rivera women had come a long way to see the specialist that Dr. _recommended to them. 

“Quit fussing, mija,” her abuelita scolded her softly, eyes focused on the newspaper she brought for the trip.

The pre-teen flinched. “Sorry, Mamá Imelda,” she murmured and hung her head low.

Her grandmother noticed the behavior. “Victoria will be fine. She’s strong,” she reassured her youngest granddaughter. 

“I know- I just,” Elena sighed. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“But I want to know now, I want to be in there with her! Why do I have to wait outside?” she huffed, crossing her arms across her chest. 

Imelda shook her head at the child’s antics. “This isn’t a regular exam. Only your Mamá can be with her right now.”

The youngest Rivera opened her mouth, ready to argue with her grandmother, when the door leading into the rest of the hospital creaked loudly. Her head swung up to see her sister and mamá being led into the waiting room by a nurse in a clean, white uniform. She spoke to them for a moment before turning down the hall and walking out of sight. 

Elena ran to Victoria, and asked, “So? Are you better now? Are we going home?”

It was then that she noticed her sister’s puffy eyes and sad features. Concern bubbled up in Elena’s chest. 

When her eldest daughter didn’t reply, Mamá Coco answered, “Yes, we’re going home now.” Her voice was tired, and she held onto Victoria’s shoulders in a comforting gesture. 

“What happened?” Mamá Imelda asked as she approached her family. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” Coco said, avoiding her mamá’s eyes. She tried to lead Victoria to the door, but was stopped when Imelda stepped into their path.

“No,” the matriarch said, her tone wavering between pleading and demanding. “What did the doctor say? Please, Coco.”

Coco only child bit her lip, staring down at her mamá. She remained silent, unsure of whether now was the best time or place to tell her the gravity of the situation.

The decision was made for her. “I’m wrong,” said Victoria numbly, meeting Mamá Imelda’s eyes. The younger Rivera’s expression contorted with shame and guilt. “I’m- my body’s  _ wrong _ .”

“What do you mean, mija?” asked Imelda, reaching to place her hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. 

Victoria’s eyes began to water. “The doctor said I have something called pseudohermaphroditism.”

“Pseudo- what?”

“He said it’s genetic,” she added despairingly, the slight bitterness in her tone betraying her true feelings about the discovery. 

Imelda shook her head in shock, the news settling poisonously in her mind. “But- but what does it do? Is it permanent?”

Victoria sighed, exhausted from the physical journey and emotional trip. “It’s permanent. Abuelita, I- I can’t have children.” 

Imelda’s eyes widened. “No,” she shook her head in denial.

“I was made  _ wron _ g,” Victoria repeated. 

“That’s impossible,” Imelda raised her voice. “You- your Mamá and Papá- they’re healthy, they’re fine.”

“The doctor said it could be from further back in the family,” Coco supplied. “Is that possible, Mamá? Can you remember if we had any family like Victoria?”

“No! No one that I can think of . . . .” Mamá Imelda trailed off, a distant memory resurfacing. Her face twisted into a sour expression as the realization came to her. “The  _ músico _ .”

Coco’s eyes widened at the rare mention of her father. “Was he- did he have the same illness, Mamá?” she asked unsurely, doubtful her mother would humor any of her questions. However, the answer affected Victoria. It affected their entire family. If she could inherit the defect from her grandfather, who knows if Elena had it too- or even Elena’s children, when (or if) she had any. To Coco, that made the question worth answering.

Mamá Imelda paused for a moment, anger bubbling through her body at her deadbeat husband. “No- I don’t know, he looked normal to me.”

Then again, Héctor was the only man she had ever seen in an intimate setting. Perhaps he was made wrong and Imelda simply couldn’t tell.  Or maybe he was healthy and inherited the defect from his parents. After all, she and Héctor were able to have Coco, so he couldn’t have been exactly like Victoria, right? Imelda could never know for sure, except-

“I remember he had a tía who was different,” she said, the memory returning then. “She had a beard.”

Victoria let out a sob of shock and fear, the hard day she’d had crashing into her all at once. There was so much burdening her mind- too much for her to take. Tears began to run down her pretty cheeks.

“Oh, mija, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Imelda wrapped her arms around her eldest grandchild. “That won’t happen to you.”

“You can’t know that, you can’t know that,” Victoria cried into her abuela’s shoulder. 

Elena stared at the scene before her. The unusual show of emotions from her older sister frightened her. Victoria was so serious, so tough, and now she was crying in Mamá Imelda’s arms. Her sister was just told she couldn’t have children, that she was born wrong. What else could she do but cry?

Coco and Elena soon joined the hug, comforting Victoria as best they could with quiet reassurances.The Rivera women were strong. They could get through this challenge together, as a family. No matter what happened, they always had each other. 

. . .

 

_ Rivera- Familia de Zapateros _

 

The sign above the workshop was certainly a surprise. He’d heard, of course, that the Rivera’s in Santa Cecilia made shoes, but he hadn’t expected the business to be so flourishing. The building had a fresh coat of paint, and the sound of hammers against nails could be heard from the street where he stood. They were busy, they were making money. He felt a little more at ease knowing the family was doing alright.

With some hesitance, the old man walked up to the store window and rang a little bell he found on the counter.

Almost immediately, a man’s voice called, “I’ll be right there!”

His heart skipped a beat, thinking that perhaps the voice answering him was the person he had come so far to see. Instead, a short, stout man rounded the corner and approached the counter, making his spirits fall slightly. 

“How can I help you, Señor?” the man asked, surprising the supposed customer as he suddenly leaned over the counter to get a look at the stranger’s shoes. “Size ten?”

“Uh, sí, but I’m not here to for shoes,” the elder man said, licking his dry lips nervously. “Is Héctor Rivera home?”

The other man quirked a brow. “Sorry Señor, I don’t know of a Héctor Rivera.”

“You- what?” the stranger stumbled. “But- that’s impossible. You’re the Rivera’s.”

“We are,” the man agreed. “But there’s no one named Héctor in our family. Maybe I can help you find who you’re looking for?” he offered generously, thinking the stranger was only a confused old man.

“Sí,” the man said after a moment. “My name is Ricardo Rivera. I’m looking for my son.” 

The younger man appeared surprised, but if he recognized his name, he didn’t show it. The stranger, Ricardo, continued, “My wife and son live in Santa Cecilia. María and Héctor Rivera? They live with her sister- Carmen de Santiago.”

Seeing no recollection in the shoemaker’s face, he continued, “The bearded lady?”

“Was that her name?” the short man said. “I’m sorry Señor Rivera, but she passed away years ago. The fever took a lot of people from this town.”  
Ricardo’s eyes widened. Certainly, María would have written him about her sister’s death? Albeit, she hadn’t written him in decades, but he used to get the occasional spiteful letter. 

“What about her family? Do they- do they still live here?” Ricardo asked.

The man frowned, “I didn’t know she had any family. If she did, I don’t think they’re around anymore.”

Ricardo’s spirits fell significantly at the news. María was making it too difficult to find her. He was an old man now, and he didn’t have the energy to search all of Mexico for her. But, he would if he had to- Ricardo had to see his estranged wife before it was too late. The older he became, the closer he was to death’s doorstep. He needed to see his family one last time. 

Noticing the stranger’s discouraged expression, the shoemaker asked, “Do you have anyone else you know in town?”

Ricardo shook his head. The only people he knew were the Gomez’s, his wife’s employer, but he doubted they would be hospitable to him, if María’s old letters were true. 

“Then how about you stay for dinner?” the man offered kindly. “My tios might be able to answer your questions.”

Ricardo blinked at the unexpected offer, and was quick to decline, “I couldn’t- please, Señor I’m couldn’t take food from your family.”

“Nonsense- we’re glad to have you,” the shoemaker dispelled the stranger’s reservations, and then motioned for Ricardo to follow him. “Come inside- it’s too hot in the sun. It’s a slow business day anyways, and honestly? I think your company will be a nice break from work.”

The older man nodded, silently accepting the offer as he trailed behind the shoemaker. “Are you a Rivera too?” he asked, knowing that the workshop was owned and operated by Rivera’s, and the fact that this man worked here probably meant he was part of the family.

“Sí,” the short man confirmed, and then turned to shake Ricardo’s hand properly. “Julio Rivera.”

“The man of the house?” Ricardo asked.

“Ha! Ay, no, the one you’re thinking of would be Mamá Imelda,” Julio answered, leading Ricardo into the workshop. “She’s the boss around here. And these,” he gestured to the two lanky men bent over a workbench. “Are her brothers.”

At the return of their nephew-in-law, the brothers- twins, Ricardo noticed immediately- looked up from their unfinished projects. The two were so identical that for a moment, all Ricardo could do was stare. He managed to greet them with a nod. 

Julio introduced the stranger cheerily, “Felipe, Oscar, this is Señor Ricardo Rivera. I was wondering if you two could help him with something?”

Felipe- or maybe Oscar, Ricardo didn’t know which brother was which- stood to greet him and quickly shook his hand, “Hola, Señor.” His hands were slender and calloused, craftsman’s hands. 

“How can we help you today?” Oscar- Felipe?- asked, rising to stand next to his brother. The twins took a moment to examine the stranger’s shoes. “Size ten?”

Ricardo chuckled at the repeated comment. “Sí, but unfortunately I’m not here for shoes,” he said. “I’m trying to find my family. I wondering if you know them?”

“Of course, Señor,” said Felipe.

“We know most of everyone in Santa Cecilia,” Oscar finished.

“That’s good,” Ricardo grinned then, wrinkles stretching across his leathery face as he asked, “Do you know of María Rivera?”

The twins’ faces fell, and so did Ricardo’s hope. They glanced off to the side, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.

“Ay, sí, Señora Rivera,” Felipe managed finally, gesturing dismissively. “She, uh, she passed away several years ago from the fever.”

Ricardo’s heart fell into the pit of his stomach, and despair washed over his body at the news. The thought had crossed his mind before, that perhaps the reason María stopped sending letters was because something terrible had happened, but he hoped it wouldn’t be the case. However, his hope dwindled as the years went by with no response. When he was younger, Ricardo completely disregarded the stop of the letters. After all, María left him. Who’s to say she didn’t find someone else to raise their son with? The idea infuriated him then, and he bitterly ignored her. In the end, she was no longer around to ignore. 

The news was unfortunate, but Ricardo did not cry. He knew that María may have died during their separation, but he thought the cause would have been old age. Even then, he thought her death would have been recent. He never expected her to have died decades ago. 

The revelation left him with one remaining question. “What about her son? Héctor- does he still live around here?”

The twins visibly cringed at the mention of the missing man. “No, he left a long time ago,” Oscar said, a look of distaste creeping over his face. 

“Do you know where he went?” Ricardo asked, put off by the twin’s strange reaction to the mention of his son. 

“No one does,” Felipe answered, and then turned to Julio. “May we speak with you for a moment, por favor?”

Julio nodded, confused at the sudden change in atmosphere as his in-laws led him into the courtyard, leaving Ricardo alone in the workshop. The second they left the room, the older man could hear the twins whispering angrily to Julio. They bickered for a minute longer, and then fell silent. The three Rivera’s quietly reentered the workshop. The young man who greeted Ricardo so kindly before now regarded the stranger with an uncertain unsteadiness. 

“Are you certain you have no other family in town, Señor Rivera?” Julio asked timidly. “Or maybe your family isn’t in Santa Cecilia anymore?”

“All I have is Héctor and María, and I know they were here,” said Ricardo. “Please, Senores, I just- I’m not getting any younger,” he gestured to his aged body, “All I want is to see my son again.”

The shoemakers seemed to flinch at Ricardo’s plea. Oddly, Julio looked almost guilty, refusing to meet the stranger’s eyes. 

Ricardo narrowed his brow, suspicion seeping into his mind. “You- there’s something you’re not telling me.”

The three men shared a look. “We’ve told you everything we know, Señor Rivera,” said Julio.

“No, you haven’t,” said Ricardo, glaring at the shomemakers. “What were you all talking about outside?”

“Nothing! Just- ah, a new shoe order?” Julio tried, obviously lying. Simultaneously, the twins pinched the bridges of their noses in exasperation with their nephew-in-law’s lack of subtlety. 

Ricardo’s face darkened. “I don’t believe you,” he said, frustration building in his voice. “I know the Rivera name is new to Santa Cecilia. The only Rivera’s that were here forty years ago were my wife and son.”

Julio licked his lips nervously, “We- uh, my mother-in-law, she’s from out of town too? She- ah, that is-”

“The jig’s up, Julio,” Felipe cut in, disliking the idea of lying to the old man any further, lying badly, at that.

“It’s no use avoiding it,” Oscar agreed, and then addressed Ricardo with an apologetic tone, “Señor, we Rivera’s- we are related to your son.”

“I knew that,” Ricardo grumbled. “But what happened to him?”

Felipe sighed, “We were telling the truth, Señor. Héctor left to play music over thirty years ago- we haven’t heard from him since.”

The old man didn’t know what to think. Despair flitted around his head, as did shame and anger for his missing son. Finding him would be near impossible, if the limited information his son’s own family could give him was credible. He might never see him again. 

Ricardo collapsed into a nearby chair, his head hung low and his eyes wide as the truth settled into his soul. One way or another, Héctor was gone. He was too late. 

Seeing the old man’s state, Julio approached him gently, “I’m sorry you had to hear about your son like this, Señor Rivera.”

“His name is Héctor,” he said. 

“Héctor, right,” the shorter man repeated sheepishly.

“You don’t even know his name?” Ricardo despaired. 

Julio shook his head. “Lo siento, but Mamá Imelda- she never talks about him.”

Ricardo raised his head at the second mention of the woman of the house. “Who exactly is this ‘Imelda’?”

. . .

It was dark when the Imelda, Coco, Elena and Victoria returned home from the train station. They were tired from the emotionally exhausting day, but more than that, they were hungry. However, they didn’t expect to come home to a hot meal. As attentive and loving as the Rivera men were, they were shoddy cooks. That’s why the four women were so surprised to smell something absolutely mouth-watering wafting from the kitchen. 

Imelda’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of the amazing smell promising a great dinner. Her brothers couldn’t cook to save their lives, and Julio- suffice to say, he could try his best. The poor man was so sheepish, he was too nervous around fire to work the stove properly. So who was making food?

Enticed by the smell, her granddaughters and their aunt hurried into their home. Imelda heard them greet their great uncles near the door before disappearing inside. For the moment, she and Coco were alone. 

Imelda turned to face her daughter. She stood still and stared at the threshold her children ran through. Her rigid posture reflected a sort of disturbed nervousness that felt out of place on Coco’s frame.

Gently, Imelda pulled her daughter into her arms, letting her rest her chin on her shoulder. “It’s okay, mija,” she said, knowing what must have been going through her head. “Victoria will be fine.”

“I know, Mamá, I just-” Coco let out a shuddering sigh. “She’s so young. She shouldn’t have to cope with something like this.”

Imelda nodded and rubbed comforting circles into Coco’s back. “You’re right, Coco, you’re absolutely right,” she said, and then scowled. “ _ Damn músico _ , corrupting our family like this-”

“He couldn’t have known,” Coco frowned. “None of us could have known this would happen. It’s no one’s fault.”

Imelda opened her mouth, prepared to argue otherwise, when her brothers peeked into the courtyard. 

“Imelda, you’re home!” Felipe greeted over-excitedly, refusing to make eye contact with his sister. “And good timing to, we’re almost done making dinner.”

Imelda’s brow narrowed in suspicion as she sniffed the air once more, enjoying the unusually delicious smell coming from her home. 

“Did you two cook?” she asked, secretly hoping that the twins had made some breakthrough and finally, after nearly 50 years, figured out how to cook.

“Ay, no,” Oscar answered sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. 

“We have a guest- he offered to make dinner, and well,” Felipe sniffed the air for emphasis, “How could we refuse?”

“You let a guest make dinner for all of us?” Imelda fumed, waving her finger into her brothers’ faces. “Where’s your common sense? You don’t make your guest cook the food- that’s your job!”

Oscar cowered behind Felipe, and then Felipe hid behind Oscar, leaving him in the open again.

“We started to cook, but he insisted!” Oscar tried to defend himself, his palms raised in submission. Felipe offered, “He said he didn’t like what we were making- trying to make, anyways.”

“We burnt it,” said Oscar.

“Badly,” Felipe added.

Imelda sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose. “One of these days, I’m going to use my shoe on you two,” she muttered under her breath. “Fine. Fine! We’ll make it up to him somehow.”

She began towards the house, her brothers and daughter following on her heels. “Who is this guest anyways?”

“He’s a old man-”

“From out of town.”

Imelda crossed the threshold and hurried into the kitchen. Standing in front of her stove was a tall, old man with wild white hair. A burly arm stirred a pan of ground beef, popping and sizzling and smelling absolutely amazing. The table beside him was lined with plates filled with corn husks and masa dough, waiting for when the beef was ready. The stranger turned when he heard the clicking of Imelda’s heels on the tile floor of the kitchen.

“Señora Rivera,” he assumed, sending her a gentle smile. “Your brothers said you prefer beef tamales?”

Imelda nodded silently, her eyes glancing up and down her guest. His features were strangely familiar, especially his strong, hooked nose.

He grinned. “I’m glad. I hope you like them,” he said, using the wooden spoon he was stirring with to carefully push the beef onto the tamales. 

“You didn’t need to cook for all of us, Señor,” she said, almost chastising the old man. 

He shook his head and dismissed, “Please, it’s the least I can do. Your family has been very kind to have me.”

“Have you?” she asked, and then realized that her brothers and son-in-law must have invited him to stay the night. “Of course, we’re glad to let you stay.”

Imelda sent an angry glance to Oscar and Felipe, who nervously took a step back towards the door. Unwelcome surprises were common in the Rivera family, and Imelda tried to prevent them when she could. She preferred to be in control of her life, but her family never made it easy for her. Julio and her brothers knew that inviting a stranger to stay the night would upset her. They probably assumed that Victoria’s visit to the doctor would go well. Unfortunately, it did not, and the bad news along with the surprise guest chipped away Imelda’s already fragile mood.

Despite her frustration with the situation, she couldn’t just throw the old man out of her house. He’d made dinner for them. Imelda knew she came off as aggressive, maybe even cold at times, but she wasn’t heartless. 

“Here, let me help you,” she said, joining the stranger by the table and beginning to fold the tamales. 

“Thank you, Señora,” he said, his voice pleasant and humble. His towering, hulking body was imposing when she first saw him, but now Imelda sensed that her guest was a gentle giant rather than a goliath. 

She nodded, focusing on tying her tamale shut. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Coco talking to Julio in the hallway. Their hushed voices clue Imelda into the subject of their conversation. 

“You have a lovely home, Señora Rivera,” the old man said, bringing Imelda’s attention back to him.

“Gracias, Señor,” she said quickly, already feeling her patience for small talk draining away.

If the old man noticed her irritation at all, he paid no mind to it. “I heard from your brothers that you started your own business from nothing,” he mentioned, taking a moment to glance over to the matriarch. “That’s very impressive.”

“I did what I had to,” Imelda said, poorly concealing her bitterness towards the subject. 

“No,” he said, his disagreement startling Imelda. Her family never dared to disagree with her, and the people of Santa Cecilia knew better than to cross paths with the fiery Señora Rivera. 

“Excuse me?” she said, a sudden burst of defensive anger bubbling to the surface.

“No,” he repeated, and then continued, “You went above and beyond, Señora Rivera. You did everything you possibly could for the good of your family, and then did even more. How many other women could have learned a trade from scratch and built a business like your’s? Your determination is- if I may say so, Señora- intimidating.”

“Oh,” Imelda said. A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks as she processed the unexpected praise. After a moment, she added, “Gracias.”

The old man smiled down at her. “De nada,” he said, and turned his gaze back on the half-folded tamale in his large hand.

Imelda stared at the stranger as he worked on their dinner. His hands were calloused and veiny, his skin loose and wrinkly. The man was very old to be traveling alone.

“Why have you come to Santa Cecilia?” Imelda asked, casually returning to the tamales. She noticed the man pause for a moment, his hands frozen above the meal he made. 

Hoping she hadn’t struck a nerve, Imelda added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

The old man swallowed. “I don’t,” he said. “In fact, I think you can help me.”

Imelda quirked a brow, but said nothing, encouraging him to continue.

“I used to have family in Santa Cecilia,” he said, a twinge of some sad emotion in his voice. “My wife and son. After talking to your brothers, I learned that they have not lived here for many years.”

Imelda frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said earnestly. 

The old man nodded solemnly. “I haven’t heard from them in a long time,” he admitted. “At first I thought they just didn’t want to write to me- it would have made sense, after everything- but that was so long ago. Your brothers told me that my wife- she died of fever, way back when.”

Before the Imelda had the chance to say her condolences, her guest continued, “My son never wrote to tell me. But, now that I think about it, she may not have given him my address . . . .” he trailed off, and then, noticing Imelda’s confused expression, explained, “My wife left me when our son was very young. We parted on bad terms.”

He took a deep, but shaky breath, trying to keep his composure in front of his host. “It’s been over forty years since I last saw him. I doubt he remembers me very well,” he said, “but I’m hoping I can track him down before I get too old to travel.”

Which would be soon, Imelda knew. While his body suggested that he had once been strong and hardy, age was conquering the stranger. He looked frail and weathered. Imelda suddenly realized just how exhausted the old man looked. The news of his wife’s passing must have taken a toll on his disposition.

“Perhaps my family can help you find him,” Imelda offered quickly.

The old man swallowed. “Perhaps,” he repeated, and then with a sly upturn of his lip, continued, “I have a feeling you may have known him.”

“Oh?” said Imelda as she gathered the tied tamales into a boiling pot on the stove.

“You would have grown up together,” the man said. “Do you happen to remember Héctor Rivera?”

The mention of the cursed name caused Imelda to drop the tamales into the water too harshly. Boiling water splashed onto her hands. She hissed and pulled them close to her, watching her skin turn red from the burn.

“Señora, are you alright?” the old man reached for her hand to inspect the damage.

“Don’t touch me!” Imelda exclaimed, slapping the stranger’s arm away from her.

“Señora Rivera, I-”

“No! How dare you, how dare you-!” she raged angrily, ignoring the pain in her hand as she tugged her boot off of her foot, “-speak of that man in my home!”

Imelda brought her boot over her head, ready to strike the stranger, when she suddenly remembered herself. Slowly, she lowered the boot. She couldn’t hit an old man, nevermind the circumstances. 

The stranger stared in shock at the boot in Imelda’s hand, caught off guard by the matriarch’s violent change in attitude. 

“Señora Rivera,” he tried, looking down the bridge of his strong nose at the tiny woman. “I understand your feelings towards my son- your brothers explained the situation before you arrived- but I need to know where he is.”

“Where he is? Ha!” Imelda barked, gesturing wildly with her boot in hand. “You come to me to ask where he is?”

The yelling caught the attention of Julio and Coco, who were still discussing Victoria’s condition in hushed voices. They rushed into the kitchen and gawked at the scene before them: Mamá Imelda threatening their elderly guest with her boot. Before Coco could try to calm her mama, Imelda continued, barely noticing her family gathering in the threshold.

“You think I would know where he went? Me, the wife he abandoned? The family he left behind?” she asked venomously, sneering up at the old man.

The man’s brow furrowed, and his face grew stony. “Señora Rivera,” he said lowly, “When I came Santa Cecilia, I had no idea he had left you and your family. I had no idea he was gone until your brothers told me earlier today. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

“And you thought I had?” Imelda spat.

The stranger thought for a moment. “Yes,” he admitted. “I thought he may have written to you. He was such a sentimental child- I couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t have written you,” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “If I’m honest, Señora, I believe he has written to you, but you haven’t told your family about the letters.”

“Didn’t tell my-? Are you suggesting that I would lie to my own family?” Imelda gasped.

“Well, from what I gathered, Señora  _ Rivera _ ,” the stranger stressed her married name, “You refuse to tell them about my son. Your brothers told me you even placed a ban on music because of him, as if music were to blame for him leaving you.”

Imelda swung her boot right in front of the old man’s crooked nose. “Music  _ is _ the reason he left!”

The stranger stared at the boot in his face for a moment before calmly pushing it away with the back of his hand. 

“I doubt that,” he said darkly, glowering over the Rivera matriarch. 

“Excuse me?” Imelda seethed.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Señora Rivera,” he said cooly. “My wife left me also. Perhaps he followed her example, and from what I’ve seen from you tonight, I doubt it took much prompting. Héctor would never want such an unruly woman.”

The strike fell across the old man’s face like a flash of lightning. The old man staggered backwards, and Coco rushed to catch him. He fell solidly into her arms and struggled to find his footing.

Coco protested, “Mamá, you can’t-”

“How dare you!” Imeda interrupted, ignoring her daughter. She shook with rage, and angry, humiliated tears pooled in her eyes. “Y-You, you!” Her voice wavered dangerously.

The old man stared up at her in shock for a moment before a flash of recognition crossed his face. 

“. . . yes, me,” he said after a pause, licking his lips in thought. Slowly, with Coco’s help, he rose to his feet and brushed off his clothes. “I apologize for intruding on your family today, Señora Rivera. I wish you the best.”

Without another word to his estranged family, the stranger turned and hastily left the kitchen, passing by his great-granddaughters in the hall. He spared them a glance before entering the courtyard and leaving the home for good. 

Ricardo stumbled down the street, still shaken from the hit from Señora Rivera’s boot. He lightly touched his cheek- it was warm and painful to the touch. For a tiny woman, the matriarch hit hard. The scene played through his mind over and over as he somehow found his way to a small motel, bought a room, and finally fell onto the bed. 

Sleep came to him instantly. 

The following morning, Ricardo Rivera left Santa Cecilia on a train bound for Mexico City. That was the last the Rivera’s heard of strange old man who, in better circumstances, might have been their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, it's been a month since I've updated! I'm sure you're all sorely aware of that. I've actually had this chapter written up for a while, but I haven't gotten around to finishing until now. I've got a lot on my plate right now irl- work, school, church, dnd, so much honestly. I have very little time to write at the moment, so updates will be infrequent. I have an outline for next chapter tho, so that's good- I have a lot of things i need to tie into the story.  
> Hope you liked this chapter! This won't be the last we see of Ricardo.


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